<-    t 


BWlt,  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELE3 


BROKEN    CHORDS 


CROSSED   BY  THE 


ECHO  OF  A  FALSE  NOTE 


BY 

MRS.   GEORGE  McCLELLAN 

(HARFORD  FLEMMING) 
AUTHOR  OF  "CUPID  AND  THE  SPHINX,"   "A  CARPET  KNIGHT,"   ETC. 


SECOND  EDITION 


PHILADELPHIA    AND    LONDON 

J.   B.   LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 
1912 


COPYRIGHT,  1892, 

BY 
HARRIET  HARE  MCCLELLAN. 


PRINTED  BY  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY,  PHILADELPHIA. 


TO 

MY  MOTHER, 

TO  WHOSE  SYMPATHY  AND   ENCOURAGEMENT   I   OWE  IT* 

COMPLETION,    I    DEDICATE  THIS 

STORY. 


2131435 


BROKEN    CHORDS. 


CHAPTER   I. 

LEDYARD  looked  at  Dundaff,  and  Dundaff  looked  at 
Ledyard.  Ledyard  was  in  the  pulpit  delivering  his 
initiatory  sermon,  and  Dundaff  was  seated  before  him 
listening  to  it  with  an  aspect  of  stolid  disapproval. 

Somehow  Dundaff  had  formed  an  ideal  for  its  new 
pastor,  half  unconsciously,  as  most  ideals  are  formed, 
and  although  the  conception  which  possessed  it  was 
neither  romantic  nor  very  consistent,  the  fact  was  no 
less  indisputable  that  Ledyard  did  not  fill  the  ideal. 
That  the  young  people  had  expected  him  to  be  a  much 
taller  man  than  he  was,  and  to  intone  the  services  as  his 
predecessor,  Mr.  Spaulding,  had  been  given  to  do,  was 
quite  natural,  but  here  his  shortcomings  only  began. 

The  truth  is  that  Dundaff  had  passed  through  two 
eras  so  contradictory  and  so  agitating  in  their  complete 
negation  of  each  other,  as  could  hardly  be  expected  to 
result  in  anything  but  confusion  of  ideals.  Its  first 
pastor  had  been  low-church  to  a  point  where  humility 
of  doctrine  had  to  be  sustained  by  a  considerable  degree 
of  personal  importance,  and  on  his  decease  had  been 
succeeded  by  a  gaunt,  hollow-cheeked  divine,  addicted 
to  the  highest  of  black  waistcoats  and  the  most  rapt  of 
church  attitudes,  whose  tenets  were  as  lofty  as  his  tastes 
were  aesthetic.  He,  too,  had  passed  away  from  Dundaff, 
not  direct  to  heaven,  but  en  route  to  the  healing  breezes 
of  Florida,  casting  appealing  glances  behind  him  in 
behalf  of  a  chronic  cough,  not  without  leaving  traces 
of  his  influence ;  for  after  the  first  shock  caused  by  his 

3 


4  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

decorative  tastes  and  love  of  extra  services,  there  had 
been  a  gradual  conversion,  especially  of  the  younger  and 
feminine  portion  of  the  congregation,  from  psalm-singing 
to  embroidery,  from  Mr.  Honslow  to  Mr.  Spaulding. 

To  the  credit  of  conservatism  in  Dundaff,  however,  it 
should  be  recorded  that  by  the  older  members  of  the 
congregation  Mr.  Honslow,  to  whose  sanctimonious 
memory  the  whole  village  had  been  devoted  before  Mr. 
Spaulding  came  among  them,  was  still  remembered,  and 
it  was  not  so  strange  as  it  was  unlucky  for  Ledyard  that 
in  a  successor  to  Mr.  Spaulding  they  looked  for  anothei 
Honslow. 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  they  looked  in  vain.  Who 
could  perceive  that  the  present  pretender  to  their  favor 
displayed  any  of  the  swelling  dignity  of  demeanor  which 
had  been  so  prominent  a  characteristic  of  that  departed 
worthy  ?  Did  Mr.  Ledyard  show  signs  of  an  impressive 
boldness,  or  wear  his  back  hair  parted  in  the  middle  and 
brushed  carefully  round  each  ear  ?  Not  any  more  than 
he  wore  it  tonsured  ?  Did  he  look  solemnly  over  his 
spectacles,  or  indeed  wear  any  ?  Where  was  his  double 
chin  ?  Then,  supposing  these  mere  outward  signs  were 
not  emblematic  of  the  inward  grace  from  which  they 
had  learned  to  consider  them  as  inseparable  as  of  it  they 
were  expressive,  did  one  not  listen  in  vain  for  the  good 
old  doctrine  of  predestination,  the  assurances  of  a  special 
providence  for  the  comfort  of  the  elect,  with  only  a  faint 
gleam  of  hope  for  the  repentant  sinner,  while  the  fate  of 
the  unrepentant  was  darkly  and  terribly  portrayed  against 
a  background  of  hell-fire  ? 

Ledyard  said  nothing  about  hell-fire,  nor  did  he  dwell 
on  fast-days  or  festivals,  nor  seem  to  take  any  thrilling 
interest  in  the  saints,  so  that  the  young  ladies  of  the 
congregation  were  becoming  more  and  more  convinced 
that  he  was  not  equal  to  Mr.  Spaulding  either  in  the  least 
degree.  It  should  be  admitted,  on  the  other  hand,  that 
the  young  men  of  the  flock,  who  in  Mr.  Spaulding's  day 
had  been  most  conspicuous  by  their  absence  from  seats 
in  church,  had  gathered  in  large  numbers  to  hear  Mr. 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  5 

Ledyard  preach,  and  that  his  personal  appearance,  while 
unexpected,  was  not  offensive  to  them. 

Richard  Ledyard  was  a  short,  squarely-built  man,  with 
a  clean-shaven  chin,  mutton-chop  whiskers,  and  a  most 
decisive-looking  mouth.  He  did  not  look  like  a  clergy- 
man, Dundaff  asserted,  and  thenceforth  labored  under  a 
distressing  doubt  as  to  whether  it  would  have  known 
him  for  one  at  all  if  it  had  not  first  seen  him  in  his 
priestly  robes.  Besides  this,  it  discovered  before  his 
sermon  was  half-way  to  an  end  that  he  took  his  stand 
on  the  broadest  of  broad-church  grounds.  He  spent 
much  time  in  commending  the  virtues  of  charity  and 
forbearance,  courage  and  fairness,  and  threw  out  incident- 
ally, as  it  were,  a  category  of  so  many  and  such  various 
forms  of  religious  conviction  which  the  Church  included 
in  her  wide-spread  arms  that  they  sounded  to  Dundaff 
ears  absolutely  unlimited. 

The  old  church-members,  vestrymen  and  wardens, 
felt  that  a  certain  duty  was  involved  in  frowning  upon 
views  so  much  too  comprehensive,  which  yet  left  the 
terrors  of  eternal  punishment  unchronicled,  while  the 
younger  men  were  absorbed  in  the  effort  to  conceal  the 
curiosity  which  these  new  views  excited  in  their  breasts, 
and  took  refuge  in  a  stolid  impenetrability  of  expression 
which  was  equally  depressing. 

Looking  from  one  to  the  other  set  of  listeners  with  a 
growing  sense  of  discouragement  in  spite  of  an  effort  to 
remember  that  an  opening  sermon  is  always  an  ordeal, 
Ledyard  chanced  to  notice  a  person  seated  in  one  of  the 
farthest  pews  from  the  pulpit,  whose  face  wore  neither 
a  look  of  studied  indifference  nor  of  disapproval,  but 
bore  unmistakable  signs  of  a  well-controlled  inclination 
to  smile  at  the  whole  scene,  which  stung  him  more  than 
all  the  want  of  response  of  which  he  had  before  been 
conscious. 

To  be  sure,  the  smile  which  he  detected  was  not  one 
of  derision ;  it  was  rather  one  of  sympathy ;  but,  while 
there  was  no  intentional  disrespect,  it  was  equally  evi- 
dent that  he  had  failed  to  convince  the  wearer  of  that 

i* 


6  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

smile  of  the  truth  of  what  he  was  preaching,  or  even  of 
its  possibility. 

Now,  it  happened  that  the  state  of  mind  thus  uncon- 
sciously betrayed  was  the  most  aggravating  of  mental 
attitudes  to  him,  as  to  many  of  his  temperament.  It  is 
so  much  less  easy  to  arm  one's  self  against  scepticism 
than  against  downright  opposition  or  the  time-honored 
spirit  of  persecution,  from  conflict  with  which  the  ardent 
faith  of  the  believer  arises  with  redoubled  strength. 

He  glanced  again  more  sternly  at  the  person  who  had 
dared  to  mock  his  earnestness,  and  his  indignation  in- 
creased as  he  perceived  her  to  be  a  woman  of  refined 
appearance, — one  of  the  few  women  present,  perhaps, 
who  was  so  far  educated  as  to  be  able  to  weigh  and 
understand  his  theological  explanation  of  the  reconcile- 
ment of  extremes.  Indeed,  her  manner  of  smiling  was 
as  if  she  did  understand — not  only  that  but  many  other 
things. 

Ledyard  had  been  half  inclined  to  give  up  the  effort 
to  render  himself  acceptable  to  Dundaff,  but  he  suddenly 
rose  to  his  work.  What  if  this  were  an  ignorant  little 
village  community,  full  of  prejudice  and  fearful  of  inno- 
vation, was  he  not  still  speaking  to  a  number  of  his 
fellow-beings,  and  if  he  had  failed  to  move  them,  must 
not  the  fault  be  part  his  own?  Inspired  by  this  new 
sense  of  fellowship,  he  drew  the  lines  of  the  wide-spread 
argument  in  which  he  was  engaged  to  a  sudden  focus 
on  one  simple  human  story,  and  began  when  this  was 
ended  to  further  illustrate  the  meaning  thus  exemplified 
by  a  number  of  homely  comparisons  that  suggested 
themselves  as  within  the  probable  experience  of  the 
majority  of  those  to  whom  he  spoke,  in  the  choice  of 
which  he  was  aided  by  the  fact  that  he  had  himself  been 
reared  in  a  country  village. 

Thus  he  left  his  written  sermon  with  all  its  careful 
reasoning  far  behind,  and  took  to  his  memory  and  im- 
agination, with  such  reference  to  the  thoughts  of  others 
as  proved  that  he  had  given  them  some  study.  He 
was  resolved  not  to  be  daunted  by  the  disheartenir  g 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  7 

spirit  of  his  audience,  and  as  he  approached  the  end  of 
his  sermon  he  turned  the  whole  force  of  his  eloquence 
into  a  practical  appeal  to  their  sense  of  right  against  the 
forms  of  temptation  to  which  he  conceived  them  to  be 
the  most  cpen. 

He  was  rewarded  for  his  pains,  for  although  at  first 
the  villagers  only  looked  startled,  then  puzzled,  and  there 
were  some  of  them  who  still  strove  to  be  non-committal, 
others  whom  he  instinctively  felt  to  be  the  leaders  of  the 
flock  began  to  turn  more  interested  faces  towards  the 
pulpit,  until  from  obstinate  unfriendliness  the  whole  con- 
gregation passed  to  cordial  acquiescence  in  what  the 
preacher  said,  and  there  could  be  no  doubt  that  the  new 
clergyman  had  made  himself  acceptable. 

Not  until  the  closing  prayer  had  been  offered  and  the 
blessing  had  been  given  did  he  deign  to  glance  in  the 
direction  of  the  person  whose  strange  mingling  of  ex- 
pression of  human  kindness  with  hopeless  scepticism 
had  proved  such  an  incentive  to  his  ardor,  and  led  to  the 
display  of  the  very  real  enthusiasm  which  lay  under  his 
conventional  expressions  of  belief,  at  the  bottom  of  his 
faith. 

There  was  a  shade  of  defiance  in  Ledyard's  eyes  as  he 
sought  out  his  unknown  opponent,  but  the  face  which  he 
saw  shining  out  of  the  darkness  of  the  distant  pew  smiled 
no  longer.  Even  its  incredulity  had  given  way  to  a 
look  of  the  deepest  sadness.  The  gaze  of  its  owner  met 
his  gravely  for  an  instant  before  he  turned  to  leave  the 
pulpit,  and  there  could  be  no  mistaking  her  expression. 
It  spoke  to  him  of  regretful  interest  touched  with  pro- 
found compassion. 

The  next  moment  the  whole  congregation  was  in 
motion,  buzzing,  whispering,  crowding  one  another  in 
the  effort  to  say  something  to  some  one  who  might  not 
be  seen  again  for  a  week,  after  the  manner  of  country 
congregations,  but  the  woman  whom  Ledyard  had 
noticed  rose  quickly  and  passed  swiftly  out  of  church 
without  speaking  to  any  one. 


BROKEN  CHORDS. 


CHAPTER  II. 

CYNTHIA  ARKWRIGHT  walked  very  fast  after  leaving  the 
church  on  the  occasion  of  Ledyard's  first  sermon,  having 
her  own  reasons  for  haste,  perhaps,  and,  taking  a  short 
cut  through  the  village,  climbed  a  long  flight  of  wooden 
steps  to  a  narrow  path,  which  brought  her  to  her  own 
door  before  the  swiftest  horse  could  have  reached  the 
spot  where  her  way  crossed  the  circuitous  course  of  the 
carriage  road.  So  bent  was  she  in  avoiding  notice  that 
she  did  not  even  turn  her  head  to  observe  another 
member  of  the  congregation  who  came  out  just  after  she 
did  ;  but  there  is  such  a  thing  as  seeing  without  looking, 
and  it  may  be  that  the  movements  and  appearance  of 
this  person  were  not  entirely  lost  upon  Miss  Arkwright. 

He  was  a  tall  man,  with  broad  shoulders  and  a  head 
firmly  set  on  a  strong  neck.  He  had  been  seated  some 
distance  in  front  of  her,  and  seemed  much  interested  in 
the  sermon.  His  chest  was  deep  and  his  skin  and  hair 
were  brown.  So  much  as  that  could  easily  be  seen  as 
he  strode  on  to  where  a  horse  was  held  for  him  by  a 
colored  servant  in  the  shade  of  an  oak-tree  near  the 
church-yard  gate. 

"  There  goes  the  new  owner  of  Fernwood.  I  expect 
he  ain't  much  of  a  hand  at  a  farm,"  said  Mr.  Denney,  a 
worthy  market  gardener.  "He  sets  his  horse  pretty 
well  for  a  seaman,"  he  continued,  looking  at  him  crit- 
ically. "  You  know  the  old  saying  about  a  sailor  on 
horseback." 

"  Well,  I'll  be  bound  he's  a  gentleman,  anyway  !"  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Phelps,  the  wife  of  the  village  tinsmith,  who 
occupied  the  proud  position  of  organist.  "  They  say  his 
wife's  a  beauty." 

"  I  presume  she  would  be  thought  handsome  by 
many,"  said  Miss  Platt,  a  dried-up-looking  old  main, 
who  represented  the  fashionable  modiste  of  Dundaff, 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  9 

with  an  air  of  superior  knowledge,  which  elicited  the  in- 
quiry she  desired,  as  to  whether  she  had  any  personal 
source  of  information. 

"  Oh,  she  only  stopped  a  minute  at  my  humble  store, 
to  be  sure,  to  see  if  I  had  a  sun-hat  to  fit  her  little  boy, 
without  seeming  to  think  it  at  all  likely  she  could  find 
anything  to  suit  her  ladyship  there.  But  I  reckon  I  don't 
know  what  a  beauty  is,"  remarked  Miss  Platt,  looking 
so  scornful  of  the  overrated  charms  in  question  that 
Mrs.  Phelps  felt  ashamed  of  having  sung  their  praises,  and 
hastened  to  change  the  subject. 

"  I  never  saw  her  myself,"  she  asserted,  eagerly ;  "  but 
do  tell  me,  Mr.  Denney,  what  you  think  of  the  new 
parson." 

After  which  the  conversation  became  so  absorbingly 
interesting  that  the  three  drew  together  in  a  confidential 
knot,  and  the  first  object  of  their  attention,  who  had 
meanwhile  ridden  down  the  steep  acclivity  on  which  the 
red-brick  church  was  built,  was  soon  forgotten. 

He  passed  along  the  main  street  of  the  village  at  a 
brisk  trot,  which  made  his  horse's  hoofs  clatter  as  he 
went,  and  was  climbing  another  hill  at  the  opposite  side 
of  the  ravine  in  which  Dundaff  nestled,  looking  about 
him  as  he  did  so  at  the  trees  and  sky  and  at  a  few 
scattered  houses  that  still  lay  along  his  way,  when  he 
was  tempted  by  a  narrow  bridle-path  that  turned  off 
from  the  road  to  Fernwood.  The  fancy  took  him  to 
try  this  path,  following  which,  between  tall  elder-bushes 
and  a  tangle  of  wild  grape-vine  with  stunted  oak,  a  sud- 
den break  in  the  wall  of  trees  brought  him  in  sight  of  a 
small  brown  cottage  surrounded  by  a  garden  carefully 
planted  with  shrubs  and  lilac-bushes  and  a  few  ever- 
greens, while  a  shallow  veranda  before  the  door  was 
covered  with  the  dark-leaved  ivy  mingling  with  honey- 
suckle-vine not  yet  in  flower. 

He  was  pleased  by  the  unexpected  view  of  the  little 
cottage  and  the  picturesque  seclusion  of  its  situation. 
There  was  some  one  at  a  window  beside  the  open  door 
in  the  act  of  hanging  up  a  bird-cage.  He  saw  that 


1O  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

she  was  a  lady,  and  caught  a  partial  view,  as  she  bent 
backward  with  uplifted  chin,  of  an  oval  face,  a  firm 
mouth,  and  delicate,  dark-fringed  eyelids.  He  even  ob- 
served that  she  wore  a  small  straw  bonnet,  and  that  the 
black  mantilla,  just  slipping  from  her  shoulders,  revealed 
the  harmonious  outline  of  neck  and  arms,  noting  care- 
lessly the  combined  strength  and  roundness  faintly  seen 
beneath  a  thin  white  muslin  gown. 

She  formed  the  centre  of  a  pretty  picture,  he  thought, 
in  the  frame  of  the  vine-clad  window,  and  one  for  the 
refinement  of  which  he  was  hardly  prepared.  Then,  as 
the  sound  of  his  horse's  tread  drew  nearer  and  she  low- 
ered her  head  to  look  out,  what  was  it  that  made  him 
start  and  turn  deadly  pale,  while  his  eyes  met  hers  in  a 
sort  of  fascinated  stare  ?  Was  it  merely  the  unusual 
power  in  the  woman's  face,  the  same  force  and  originality 
that  had  so  struck  Ledyard  half  an  hour  before  ?  It 
would  seem  not,  for  the  shock  of  the  encounter  appeared 
equally  great  to  her.  She  drew  back  with  a  conscious 
look,  changing  to  one  of  dismay,  and  hastily  pulled  down 
the  window-shade  with  an  instinctive,  although  futile, 
desire  to  avoid  recognition. 

Ended  by  this  action,  the  instant  in  which  they  had 
gazed  at  each  other  was  inconceivably  short.  The 
negro  servant,  who  followed  his  master  at  a  respectful 
distance  on  a  raw-boned  pony,  saw  him  start  and  draw 
in  his  horse's  rein  with  a  sudden  pressure,  as  if  to  avoid 
some  obstacle  in  the  way.  He  even  seemed  on  the 
point  of  dismounting,  but  the  impulse  was  checked, 
and  the  next  moment  he  was  moving  on.  The  servant 
could  not  have  told  that  Lieutenant  Henderson  had 
seen  the  cottage,  so  steadily  did  he  pass  it  by ;  while 
as  the  window-curtain  descended,  his  head  was  thrown 
back  and  his  eyes  were  turned  resolutely  in  the  opposite 
direction,  it  might  have  been  for  a  last  view  of  the  foam- 
ing river  dashing  through  the  ravine  below  them,  at  right 
angles  with  the  village  street.  Much  less  did  the  servant 
see  the  lady,  who  had  vanished  before  he  came  in  sight 
of  the  house;  but  the  vision  had  been  perfectly  distinct 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  II 

while  it  lasted,  and  Millard  Henderson  told  himself  that 
he  could  no  more  have  been  mistaken  in  her  than  she 
could  in  him. 

"  Papa,  papa,  where  have  you  been  ?  You  are  late  for 
luncheon,  and  mamma  is  cross.  May  I  ride  to  the  stable 
if  Malachi  will  hold  me  on?" 

The  impatient  little  figure  by  which  this  complaint  and 
petition  were  breathlessly  preferred  was  jumping  up  and 
doun  on  the  door-step  as  Lieutenant  Henderson  ap- 
proached. He  could  hardly  wait  for  his  father  to  spring 
from  his  horse  and  lift  him  into  the  saddle,  so  wild  was 
he  with  eagerness  for  the  hoped-for  ride.  Malachi,  the 
negro  servant,  walked  carefully  beside  him,  leading  his 
own  horse  with  an  arm  passed  through  the  bridle,  while 
he  held  Master  Wilfred's  firmly  close  to  the  bit  with 
his  right  hand,  and  Master  Wilfred  himself  with  his  left. 
Thus  the  little  eight-year-old  horseman  sat  proudly  and 
safely, — his  short-breeched  legs  astraddle,  and  his  earnest 
blue  eyes  fixed,  as  he  had  been  told  to  fix  them,  steadily 
between  his  horse's  ears. 

His  father  stood  and  watched  him  out  of  sight.  There 
was  a  light  in  his  face  as  he  did  so,  which  quite  died  out 
as  he  turned  to  enter  the  house ;  and  yet  it  was  a  very 
inviting  house  to  enter.  The  wide  hall,  surrounded  by  a 
massive  wooden  wainscot  to  match  the  broad  staircase 
and  twisted  balustrade  of  old  carved  oak,  was  thickly 
carpeted  and  richly  furnished,  while  the  drawing-room 
and  library,  which  opened  from  the  hall  on  either  side, 
were  each  appropriately  hung  with  curtains  dark  and 
light,  both  freshly  draped,  and  both  so  disposed  as  to 
give  an  immediate  sense  of  luxury  and  comfort. 

Nevertheless,  the  master  of  the  house  did  not  seem  to 
receive  this  impression.  He  glanced,  indeed,  towards  the 
library  with  a  certain  moody  expression  of  regret,  for  this 
was  his  own  especial  sanctum,  and  then  tramped  sullenly 
into  the  opposite  room.  Here  a  bright  wood  fire  was 
burning,  for  the  day  was  a  chilly  one  in  the  early  spring  ; 
and  beside  the  fire  on  a  lounge  covered  with  Turkish 


12  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

tapestry,  amid  a  heap  of  many-colored  India-silk  cush- 
ions, reclined  a  slender,  small-featured  woman,  with  wide 
blue  eyes,  fair  hair,  and  delicate  complexion. 

She  was  still  young,  and  would  have  been  decidedly 
pretty  but  for  faintly-unpleasant  lines  about  the  corners 
of  her  eyes  and  mouth,  which  gave  the  impression  that 
they  had  been  used  too  much,  and  an  empty  look  in  the 
eyes  themselves,  which,  together  with  a  general  languor 
of  expression,  led  one  rather  to  say  that  she  had  been 
pretty, — a  fatal  change  of  tense.  She  was  exquisitely 
dressed  in  a  pale  shade  of  some  soft  woollen  fabric  mixed 
with  white  and  much  trimmed  with  lace,  the  dainty  folds 
of  which  fell  all  about  her  hands  and  lay  against  the 
white  skin  of  her  tender  cheek  and  throat. 

"  I  am  sorry  you  waited  luncheon,"  said  her  husband, 
striding  across  the  room  to  the  fire.  He  was  not  cold, 
but  a  man's  hearth  is  a  point  of  vantage. 

"  Oh,  it  does  not  matter,"  she  answered,  wearily.  "  I 
was  a  little  faint,  but  it  is  of  no  consequence." 

"  I  went  to  church,"  he  said,  hastily,  "  and  the  roads 
were  rather  bad." 

"  Bad !  I  should  think  they  were  bad  !"  she  retorted 
more  sharply.  "  Look  at  your  boots,  and  the  carpet. 
You  do  not  mean  that  you  have  been  all  this  while  riding 
home  from  church  ?" 

"  No ;  I  found  a  new  lane,"  he  admitted,  "  and  thought 
I'd  like  to  see  where  it  would  end." 

The  truth  was  that  following  the  path  which  he  had 
adopted  so  unpremeditatedly  he  had  made  quite  a  wide 
circuit  through  the  neighboring  country,  hardly  realizing 
how  time  fled,  and  much  absorbed  in  a  train  of  thought 
set  unexpectedly  in  motion  by  the  incident  to  which  the 
accidental  turn  had  led. 

Even  now,  as  he  stood  on  the  hearth-rug,  wet,  muddy, 
and  late  for  luncheon,  his  eyes  began  to  dream  and  his  truant 
fancy  to  revert  to  some  past  experience  of  which  he  had 
not  thought  before  for  many  a  long  month,  while  his  brow 
gradually  assumed  a  puzzled  expression,  such  as  it  had 
worn  on  first  recovering  from  the  surprise  of  recognition, 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  13 

"What  does  it  mean?  How  came  she  here?"  he 
was  asking  himself,  with  evident  bewilderment,  for  the 
twentieth  time. 

At  last  Mrs.  Henderson  began  to  lose  all  patience  at 
his  persistent  unconsciousness  of  her  little  attempts  to 
attract  his  attention  to  herself,  or  at  least  to  arouse  his 
contrition  for  the  discomfort  and  annoyance  he  had 
caused,  and  said  with  despairing  animosity,  "  Really, 
Millard,  I  shall  be  obliged  if  you  will  ring  for  Teresa  to 
brush  up  that  mud,  and  go  and  make  yourself  fit  for 
luncheon."  Which  accordingly  he  did. 


CHAPTER   III. 

To  Richard  Ledyard  it  appeared  that  the  village  of 
Dundaff  was  not  attractive  on  first  inspection.  Its  one 
narrow  street,  ill  paved  and  muddy,  rambled  crookedly 
along  until,  with  a  sudden  bend,  it  crossed  the  river 
Osceola  by  a  covered  wooden  bridge.  The  gray  shin- 
gled roofs  of  the  houses  on  either  side  presented  an 
uninteresting  monotony  of  effect,  broken  only  by  the 
massive  stone  arch,  supporting  the  railroad,  which 
spanned  the  street  diagonally.  Altogether  Ledyard  was 
not  impressed  with  its  aesthetic  qualities  in  the  month 
of  March. 

In  June  it  was  another  matter,  and  Dundaff  had  not 
been  lacking  in  warm  admirers.  Old  Miss  Pinsley, 
Cynthia's  maiden  aunt,  was  wont  to  think  that  the  view 
from  the  covered  bridge  was  perfect.  "Just  exquisite, 
my  dear!"  she  would  exclaim,  with  a  little  ecstatic  gasp, 
as  she  gazed  through  the  narrow  window  in  the  side  of 
the  bridge  on  a  summer  afternoon  ;  and  indeed  the  mur- 
muring river,  leaping  and  foaming  over  its  rocky  bed 
till  it  wound  away  between  high  wooded  hills,  the  village 


14  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

of  Dundaff  on  the  one  hand,  while  on  the  other  a  grassy 
meadow  bordered  with  willow-trees  afforded  pasture  to 
Dundaff  cows,  were  all  a  pleasant  sight. 

"  It  really  makes  a  picture,"  Miss  Pinsley  would  say. 
"  But,  dear  aunt,  there  are  two  sides  to  the  picture," 
Cynthia  would  object,  standing,  indeed,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  bridge,  and  looking  through  her  window  in 
quite  the  opposite  direction. 

Thus,  first  she  would  see  a  mill-dam, — not  full  enough 
to  be  picturesque,  nor  low  enough  to  escape  notice, — 
next  a  huge  stone  cotton-mill,  and  beyond  it  a  group  of 
other  factory  buildings,  strong  and  substantial,  but  very 
square  and  uninteresting,  while  not  far  from  them  num- 
bers of  small  houses  stood  uncomfortably  near  together, 
as  it  seemed,  in  which  the  workers  of  the  mills  lived  with 
their  families. 

To  be  sure,  the  everlasting  hills  would  go  sweeping 
away  grandly  into  the  summer  sky  behind  these  centres 
of  human  toil,  but  Cynthia,  although  young  and  im- 
aginative in  those  days,  had  always  a  strong  sympathy 
for  persons  who  were  forced  to  struggle  with  the  burden 
of  life,  and  could  never  enjoy  the  view,  for  the  thought 
of  how  much  unknown,  unsuspected  misery  those  great 
stone  walls  might  hide. 

"  Think  what  it  would  be,  aunt,  to  have  the  sound  of 
machinery  continually  in  one's  ears  !  Think  of  looking 
all  day  long  at  a  spool  on  which  something  is  being 
wound  as  relentlessly  as  if  it  were  the  thread  of  one's 
own  life !" 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know,  Cynthia,  it  must  be  very  dreadful 
indeed;  but  perhaps  it  is  not  quite  to  them  what  it  would 
be  to  you  or  me.  Habit  must  make  some  difference, 
don't  you  think,  dear?  and  does  it  seem  to  you  neces- 
sary always  to  look  at  those  gloomy  buildings  ?" 

"  Why,  no,  aunt ;  but  it  does  not  make  one  think  less 
of  the  lives  these  people  lead  to  turn  one's  back  on 
them." 

At  which  Miss  Pinsley  would  shiver  a  little,  as  though 
struck  with  the  chill  shadow  of  the  old  wooden  bridge, 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  1 5 

after  the  heat  of  the  sunlight  without,  and  the  foolish 
gladness  would  die  out  of  her  worn,  delicate  face,  and 
she  and  Cynthia  would  pass  on  into  the  village  street 
with  sadly  lingering  feet. 

Cynthia  was  an  odd  girl,  the  little  lady  thought,  and 
there  was  no  foreseeing  how  she  might  take  things,  but 
she  was  very  good  to  her  old  aunt.  In  fact,  the  two 
were  never  so  happy  in  those  bygone  times  as  when  they 
were  together. 

Cynthia,  who  was  being  educated  at  a  convent  school 
in  Baltimore,  in  accordance  with  the  last  wishes  of  her 
mother,  did  not  enjoy  the  return  to  her  home  as  she 
otherwise  would  have  done,  on  account  of  the  restraints, 
the  style,  and  the  grandeur  of  her  father's  house  in  town, 
where  an  endless  round  of  society  duties  awaited  her, 
seasoned  by  her  step-mother's  disapproval  of  all  that  was 
natural,  if  girlish,  in  her  actions  or  ways,  and  with  only 
the  occasional  solace  of  her  father's  smile. 

Thus  she  would  escape  from  the  dust  and  heat  of  the 
city,  and  from  the  conventionality  both  of  school  and  of 
home,  at  the  beginning  of  the  long  vacation,  with  the 
sense  of  a  captive  released  from  prison.  No  wonder  she 
was  glad  to  get  back  to  Miss  Pinsley,  to  the  country  air, 
and  to  freedom,  and  prized  the  recovered  right  to  think 
and  do  as  she  pleased. 

It  may  have  been  that  she  prized  this  right  a  little  too 
highly  even  then.  At  all  events,  she  loved  the  sweet 
old-fashioned  garden  of  her  great-aunt's  tiny  house.  She 
loved  the  quaint  little  parlor  with  its  faint  smell  of  faded 
rose-leaves:  even  its  framed  sampler  was  a  welcome 
sight.  Then  there  was  the  big  chestnut-tree  at  the 
corner  of  the  lot  with  one  arm  extended  just  in  the  most 
convenient  manner  to  support  a  rustic  swing,  a  seat  in 
which,  of  a  summer  afternoon,  with  a  book,  was  fit  for  a 
queen.  There  was  the  fine  old  Scotch  retriever,  to  whom 
a  walk  with  Cynthia  was  a  joyful  diversion  from  his 
daily  occupation  of  fighting  with  her  aunt's  favorite 
yellow  cat. 

But  Cynthia's  pleasantest  memories  clung  about  the 


1 6  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

weekly  visits  to  Mrs.  Pelham,  of  Fernwood,  which  they 
were  constantly  urged  to  repeat,  and  yet  with  regard  to 
which  it  was  a  point  of  honor  scrupulously  observed  by 
Miss  Pinsley  to  express  surprise  whenever  the  invitation 
came. 

Mrs.  Pelham  was  the  wife  of  one  of  the  owners  of  the 
cotton-mills,  and  quite  the  great  lady  of  the  place  by 
virtue  of  her  social  position  in  Baltimore,  apart  from 
her  husband's  wealth.  As  far  as  fortune  was  concerned, 
indeed,  she  was  hardly  superior,  if  equal,  to  the  wife  of 
her  husband's  partner,  Mr.  Betterton ;  but  Mrs.  Pelham 
was  something  more  than  a  local  magnate,  being  a 
woman  of  high  ideals  as  well  as  a  lady  of  cultivation 
and  taste. 

She  thus  strove  to  influence  her  husband  towards  the 
improvement  of  the  moral  and  physical  condition  of  the 
poor  about  them,  having  a  keen  sense  of  the  duties  and 
responsibilities  of  one  class  of  society  to  another ;  but, 
while  anxious  for  the  welfare  of  the  people,  she  was  often 
discouraged  by  the  want  of  success  of  the  means  by 
which  she  tried  to  promote  it. 

The  only  Episcopal  church  in  the  neighborhood  was 
several  miles  from  the  factory,  and,  while  all  the  more 
agreeably  situated  for  the  country  gentry,  who  could 
drive  thither  in  their  handsome  carriages,  was  practi- 
cally unattainable  to  the  poor.  Yet  when  she  had 
succeeded  in  persuading  Mr.  Pelham  to  build  a  church 
in  the  village,  so  that  the  operatives  in  the  cotton- 
mills  might  have  a  chance  to  save  their  souls,  she  was 
troubled  to  find  the  congregation  chiefly  composed 
of  the  shopkeepers  of  the  town.  There  was  a  percep- 
tible absence  of  young  people,  or  of  the  poorer  of  the 
employees. 

She  began  to  fear  that  Mr.  Honslow's  sermons  fright- 
ened the  people,  he  took  such  gloomy  views  in  them, 
and  it  was  due  to  her  efforts  that  after  the  death  of  Mr. 
Honslow  a  rector  of  exactly  opposite  tenets  was  chosen 
for  St.  Andrew's,  but  with  little  better  results.  The  fac- 
tory people  as  a  body  would  not  go  to  church,  while  the 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  I/ 

few  stray  exceptions  who  found  their  way  there  kept 
apart,  as  if  they  did  not  dare  to  mix  with  the  more  well- 
to-do  families  of  the  tradespeople,  who,  in  their  turn, 
looked  down  upon  them,  and  both  sets  of  worshippers 
quite  ignored  that  the  church  had  been  built  for  the 
special  benefit  of  the  workers  in  the  mills. 

Mrs.  Pelham  was  profoundly  discouraged.  No  wonder 
she  felt  powerless,  poor  lady,  to  solve  or  even  to  compre- 
hend the  great  social  problem  of  the  age,  of  which  the 
reluctance  of  these  two  classes  to  mingle  was  but  a  faint 
sign.  She  was  always  tenderly  thoughtful  of  Miss  Pins- 
ley,  in  whom  might  be  said  to  be  exhibited  a  very  perfect 
type  of  a  third  class, — that  of  the  gentlewoman ;  while 
to  Cynthia  she  was  affectionately  gracious,  without  the 
faintest  touch  of  that  patronage  in  her  manner  to  either, 
the  display  of  which  on  the  part  of  portly  Mrs.  Betterton 
towards  that  proud  young  lady's  aunt  had  converted 
Cynthia  into  an  enemy  for  life.  Mrs.  Pelham's  own  feel- 
ings were  perplexed  rather  than  friendly  towards  Mrs. 
Betterton,  who  was  of  faultless  extraction  in  the  eyes  of 
the  village  people,  in  spite  of  her  vulgarity  and  assump- 
tion, being  the  daughter  of  Alexander  Dundaff,  the  rich 
old  Scotchman  to  whose  enterprise  and  well-filled  purse 
the  cotton-mills  owed  their  existence,  and  from  whom 
the  town  had  taken  its  name. 

With  the  country  gentry,  however,  it  was  another 
matter,  as  she  was  keenly  aware,  although,  instead  of 
contenting  herself  with  the  society  of  the  tradespeople, 
among  whom  she  was  quite  the  leader  of  opinion,  she 
insisted  upon  going  to  the  more  aristocratic  church,  and 
inviting  such  members  of  its  congregation  as  acknowl- 
edged her  acquaintance  to  a  castellated  building,  com- 
posed of  alternate  slices  of  brick  and  marble,  which  she 
and  her  husband  called  by  the  unassuming  name  of 
Camelot,  suggested  by  Tom  Betterton,  their  promising 
son  and  heir,  who,  if  he  had  not  been  able  to  enter  col- 
lege, had  read  Tennyson. 

Mrs.  Betterton  always  felt  that  her  marriage  to  Martin 
Betterton,  her  father's  intelligent  foreman,  had  been  a 
b  2* 


1 8  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

mistake,  but  the  greatest  minds  have  moments  of  weak- 
ness. Mr.  Betterton  was  at  once  the  shrewdest,  the  best- 
hearted,  and  the  most  illiterate  of  men,  uith  whom  to 
converse  was  as  difficult  as  to  do  business  was  easy.  On 
his  part  the  match  was  partly  for  love,  although  certainly 
in  the  direct  line  of  his  ambition,  as  it  gradually  won 
him  a  partnership  in  the  business,  and  after  the  death  of 
Mr.  Dundaff  gave  him  control  of  the  whole  manufactory. 
It  was  then  that  he  showed  his  shrewdness  by  hastening 
to  solicit  Mr.  Pelham's  co-operation  in  the  cotton-mills, 
to  which  he  had  long  supplied  the  raw  material. 

A  highly-respected  Baltimore  merchant,  engaged  in 
shipping  large  invoices  of  cotton  from  Norfolk,  Mr. 
Pelham's  consent  to  become  part  owner  of  the  mills,  and 
hold  up  the  credit  of  the  business,  after  the  death  of  Mr. 
Dundaff,  was  a  wonderful  turn  of  the  wheel  of  fortune  to 
Martin  Betterton,  and  it  was  not  surprising  that  Mrs. 
Betterton  should  have  looked  upon  the  wife  of  her  hus- 
band's partner  as  the  natural  ladder  by  which  she  could 
climb  to  social  eminence. 

It  was  partly  a  love  of  country  life  which  actuated  Mr. 
Pelham  in  the  matter,  in  whose  family  the  house  at  Fern- 
wood  had  been  for  several  generations.  He  therefore 
renovated  it,  and  decided  to  make  it  his  summer  resi- 
dence, while  about  the  same  time  Mr.  Betterton  built 
for  himself  the  costly  and  spacious  mansion  where  Mrs. 
Betterton  took  pleasure  in  astounding  the  less  opulent 
of  her  country  neighbors  with  the  splendor  of  her  hos- 
pitality. 

To  propitiate  Mrs.  Betterton  without  making  a  bosom 
friend  of  her  was  Mrs.  Pelham's  constant  study,  but  this 
was  the  only  direction  in  which  her  friend's  considerate 
benevolence  failed  to  elicit  Cynthia's  sympathy.  Much 
younger  in  years,  she  had  a  keener  natural  insight  into 
motives  and  causes,  which  led  her  to  distrust  Mrs. 
Betterton,  while,  although  as  a  rule  she  admired  Mrs. 
Pelham's  earnestness  of  purpose  and  noble  aspirations 
for  others,  there  was  a  radical  difference  in  their  way  of 
regarding  the  lower  classes 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  1 9 

She  perceived  that  Mrs.  Pelham  thought  it  her  right 
and  duty  to  help  them,  while  Cynthia  had  conceived  the 
idea  that  it  was  their  right  and  duty  to  help  themselves. 
She  did  not  see  how  this  could  be  brought  about,  and 
therefore  the  prospect  seemed  more  hopeless  from  her 
point  of  view  than  from  that  of  her  friend ;  but  she  never 
gave  up  the  belief  that  the  right  existed,  although  so 
difficult  to  maintain  as  to  make  the  attainment  appear 
impossible. 

Thus  it  may  be  seen  that  Cynthia  certainly  was  odd, 
even  in  these  days,  so  far  as  presenting  decided  points 
of  difference  from  other  girls,  but  it  was  not  until 
some  years  later  that  the  pronounced  and  irremediable 
nature  of  her  oddness  had  become  patent  to  the  Dundaff 
mind. 

When  Ledyard  came  to  preach  to  the  people  in  Mrs 
Pelham's  church  it  was,  indeed,  established  beyond  all 
doubt  or  question,  for  did  not  all  Dundaff  know  that 
Cynthia  was  the  daughter  of  one  of  the  richest,  most 
influential  men  in  the  State,  that  she  had  had  all  the 
advantages  that  an  introduction  to  fashionable  society  in 
a  large  city  could  give,  and  yet  that  she  had  suddenly 
and  unaccountably  made  up  her  mind  to  retire  from  the 
world  and  to  enter  a  convent,  to  the  regret  of  her  whole 
family  ?  Was  it  not  declared  that  this  regret  had  been 
so  keen  on  the  part  of  her  father  that  it  had  hastened 
him  to  his  grave  ? 

Nor  yet  content  with  this  catalogue  of  offences,  rumor 
asserted  that  she  had  been  at  the  very  time  of  this 
strange  determination  engaged  to  be  married  to  a  most 
unexceptionable  young  man,  whom  she  had  thrown  over 
without  scruple.  .She  had,  it  was  reported,  even  gone 
so  far  as  to  take  the  veil  in  a  convent  in  St.  Augustine ; 
but  what,  if  this  were  the  case,  had  induced  her  to  leave 
the  convent,  rumor  had  not  yet  decided.  Some  people 
thought  that  she  gave  up  the  fancy  of  her  own  accord, 
like  that  of  being  married ;  others,  that  she  had  been 
persuaded  to  leave  the  nunnery  by  the  entreaties  of  her 
aunt,  Miss  Pinsley,  with  whom  she  always  after  lived 


2O  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

It  was  only  certainly  known  that  she  had  returned  to 
Dundaff,  after  an  absence  of  several  years,  looking  older, 
sadder,  paler,  and  even  more  reserved  in  manner  than 
she  had  been  as  a  girl,  and  in  Dundaff  she  had  lived 
ever  since. 

All  this,  with  the  natural  comments  which  such  un- 
usual conduct  would  be  apt  to  excite  in  rustic  circles, 
was  retailed  to  Ledyard  before  he  had  been  three  weeks 
in  his  new  parish.  Mr.  Pelham,  of  Fernwood,  had  lately 
died  abroad,  he  was  told.  Mrs.  Pelham  was  still  on  the 
Continent,  but  the  house  at  Fernwood,  long  closed,  had 
just  been  opened  by  a  nephew  of  Mr.  Pelham,  to  whom, 
as  his  next  of  kin,  he  had  bequeathed  it,  together  with 
his  share  in  the  cotton-mills. 

Poor,  gentle  Miss  Pinsley,  with  whom  her  niece  had 
lived  permanently  in  Dundaff  after  the  mysterious  ab- 
sence supposed  to  have  been  passed  in  a  cloister,  was 
also  dead  some  years  before  Ledyard  came  into  the 
neighborhood,  and  Cynthia's  eccentricity  was  too  well 
known  to  be  thought  worthy  of  much  ordinary  attention. 
Even  her  strange  history  had  ceased  to  excite  interest, 
while  the  name  of  the  admirer  she  was  said  to  have  re- 
jected had  never  transpired,  and  Dundaff  and  Mrs.  Bet- 
terton  were  denied  the  sensation  of  knowing  that  among 
her  friends  and  relations  elsewhere  Cynthia  Arkwright 
w;as  still  believed  to  be  a  nun. 

As  a  matter  of  local  gossip,  therefore,  the  subject  was 
unproductive  or  threadbare,  but  enough  was  known  to 
render  it  a  fruitful  topic  with  which  to  regale  a  stranger, 
and  Ledyard  learned  that,  in  addition  to  the  unpardon- 
able sin  of  having  always  chosen  her  own  life  regard- 
less of  the  opinions  of  others,  she  preferred  to  live  alone, 
after  her  aunt's  death,  in  the  same  little  house  which 
they  had  lived  in  together  with  her  faithful  old  servant 
Marjory. 

How  he  began  to  associate  this  story  with  the  face  of 
the  woman  whose  scepticism  had  aroused  his  righteous 
indignation  on  the  occasion  of  his  introductory  sermon, 
Ledyard  never  knew.  Long  before  she  was  pointed  out 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  21 

to  him  standing  in  the  rustic  door-way  of  her  cottage, 
with  a  wistful,  far-off  look  in  her  grave  face,  he  had 
a  strong  conviction  that  hers  was  the  one  defiant  spirit 
which  had  resisted  all  argument  or  explanation  of  his; 
that  no  other  eyes  than  hers  had  met  his,  after  his 
closing  burst  of  eloquence,  with  that  deep,  compas- 
sionate gaze  which  had  been  harder  to  encounter  than 
much  coldly-expressed  dissent. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

WE  all  have  works  of  Art  in  our  memories  of  more  or 
less  merit, — pictures  which  have  been  burned  into  us,  so 
to  speak,  by  a  lightning-flash  of  feeling,  and  have  grown 
dear  as  the  years  passed.  Scenes  marvellously  clear 
or  radiant,  and  wonderfully  beautiful  to  look  back  upon, 
have  been  thus  painted  for  all  time,  and  are  more  real 
to  us  than  many  things  in  the  actual  present.  Remem- 
bered groups  or  single  figures  may  stand  forth  as  distinct 
and  unchangeable  as  statues,  the  form,  the  attitude, 
the  passing  expression  of  which  have  been  arrested 
forever,  cut  out  of  our  aching  hearts  with  the  sharp  edge 
of  pain  or  enshrined  in  the  sacred  solitude  of  our  lonely 
thoughts,  where  no  unhallowed  tread  shall  break  the 
silence,  no  common  eye  penetrate  to  their  mysterious 
presence. 

It  must  have  been  by  some  such  miracle  of  the  imagi- 
nation that,  as  Lieutenant  Henderson  turned  from  her 
window,  the  trees,  the  sky,  the  rushing  river,  the  fra- 
grance of  opening  fruit-blossoms,  and  all  the  events  of 
the  last  nine  years  of  her  life,  slipped  away  from  Cynthia 
Arkwright  and  left  in  their  place  an  entirely  different 
scene,  in  which  she  found  herself  an  actor. 

It  was  to  a  windy  afternoon  in  the  November  of  seven 
years  before  that  she  was  transported,  and  she  had 
become  one  of  two  women  who  stood  facing  each  other 


22  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

in  a  narrow,  bare  room  at  the  top  of  a  tall,  uninviting- 
looking  building,  one  of  many  similar  houses,  on  a  long, 
straight  city  street. 

The  younger  of  the  two  was  oddly  arrayed  for  the 
occasion  in  the  sort  of  hybrid  between  a  man's  and  a 
woman's  costume  known  on  the  stage  as  a  page's  dress. 
She  held  in  her  hand  a  velvet  cap  with  a  long  white 
feather,  which  she  was  twirling  about  angrily,  with  a 
blush  on  her  cheek  and  a  frown  on  her  fair  brow. 

The  face  of  the  other  woman  was  open  and  eager,  if 
the  gods  had  given  her  the  gift  to  see  it.  She  stood 
at  least  a  foot  higher,  and,  looking  down  from  this  van- 
tage, seemed  to  be  determinately  studying  her  oppo- 
nent. 

"  You  will  not  go  home,  then  ?"  she  asked,  very  earn- 
estly. 

"  You  wish  that  I  would  ?" 

"  I  came  here  hoping  to  induce  you  to  go." 

"You  are  frank,  at  least."  The  younger  woman 
smiled,  showing  her  teeth,  which  were  not  beautiful,  al- 
though her  mouth  had  seemed  so. 

"  It  is  natural,"  resumed  the  other,  "  that  my  coming 
at  all  should  seem  strange  to  you,  and  my  attempting  to 
counsel  you  an  impertinence.  I  will  show  you  a  note 
which  reached  my  dear  friend  and  yours  only  yesterday, 
and  which  should  explain  her  asking  me  to  go  to  you. 
After  which,  for  my  part  in  coming,  I  do  not  conceive 
that  any  explanation  is  necessary." 

She  extended  a  note  as  she  spoke  towards  the  younger 
girl,  who  was  daintily  rounded  and  fair-haired,  and  who 
took  the  three-cornered  epistle  in  one  hand,  eying  it  dis- 
dainfully, while  she  read  the  superscription. 

"  Then  our  mutual  friend  is  a  woman  ?"  she  asked ; 
and  as  for  all  answer  the  other  motioned  to  her  to  open 
the  note,  she  unfolded  it  and  read  the  following  words, 
hastily  written  in  pencil  on  a  half-sheet  of  paper : 

"  MY  DEAR  MRS.  PELHAM, — Notwithstanding  your  re- 
cent illness,  the  satisfaction  that  you  evinced  when  I 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  23 

ventured  once  before  to  give  you  news  of  Miss  Posey 
Periwinkle  emboldens  me  to  tell  you  that  she  is  now 
acting  here  at  the  Old  Street  Theatre,  which  I  feel  very 
sure  that  you  would  wish  to  know,  as,  in  spite  of  the 
inconsiderate  manner  in  which  this  young  lady  left  your 
protection,  I  remember  that  you  expressed  to  me  a  warm 
interest  in  her  and  her  family.  She  is  surely  too  young, 
too  pretty,  and  too  inexperienced  to  be  left  entirely  to 
her  own  guidance,  and  is  being  daily  subjected  to  the 
least  healthy  influences.  A  word  from  an  old  friend 
might  possibly  induce  her  to  give  up  the  stage,  now  that 
she  has  seen  the  hollowness  of  it,  where  remonstrance 
from  a  mere  acquaintance  is  clearly  impossible." 

"  No  name  !    And  who  is  this  friend  ?"  asked  the  actress. 

"  I  do  not  know.  Mrs.  Pelham  did  not  tell  me,  but  I 
feel  sure  she  knows.  The  person  who  wrote  it  evidently 
expects  her  to  know,  and,  although  he  speaks  plainly, 
the  note  can  be  written  with  no  other  intention  than  that 
of  serving  you.  I  have  ventured  to  speak  in  the  same 
spirit,  although  I  am  a  mere  acquaintance." 

"  Things  impossible  to  some  persons  are  not  impos- 
sible to  others,"  said  the  page,  returning  the  note,  with 
quiet  sarcasm. 

"  Yes,  I  would  always  rather  speak  of  that  which  con- 
cerns a  person  to  herself  than  to  any  one  else,"  answered 
her  visitor.  "  It  seems  to  me  fairer.  No  one  values  the 
right  to  her  own  privacy  more  than  I  do  ;  but  I  did  not 
come  to  speak  of  myself." 

"  No,  you  have  not  even  told  me  your  name,"  said  the 
page. 

The  color  rose  in  the  face  of  Mrs.  Pelham's  messenger. 
For  the  first  time  she  seemed  embarrassed  and  slightly 
indignant. 

"  When  I  spoke  of  having  met  you  at  Mrs.  Pelham's," 
she  said,  "  I  fancied  you  remembered  me.  I  supposed, 
of  course,  that  you  knew  my  name."  She  drew  out  a 
card-case  as  she  spoke,  and  the  name  it  disclosed  was 
Cynthia  Arkwright. 


24  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

There  appeared  a  gleam  of  satisfaction,  as  of  a  con- 
firmed suspicion,  in  the  page's  aspect  as  she  read  it,  but 
she  made  no  sign,  composedly  laying  the  card  beside  her 
on  a  small  table,  and  abruptly  changing  the  subject. 

"  I  thought  that  Mrs.  Pelham  declared  she  would  have 
nothing  to  do  with  me,"  she  said,  "  when  she  heard  I 
had  become  an  actress." 

"  She  was  very  much  distressed,  I  know,  for  your  sake 
and  that  of  others, — the  more  so  that  you  did  not  con- 
fide to  her  your  determination ;  but  I  never  heard  of  her 
saying  that." 

"  I  did." 

"  One  often  hears  what  is  not  true.  At  any  rate,  she 
wants  to  help  you  now,"  said  Miss  Arkwright,  win- 
ningly,  advancing  a  step  nearer.  "  Will  you  not  listen 
to  me?  I  come  direct  from  her.  She  bids  me  say  her 
house  is  open  to  you.  She  is  too  ill  to  leave  her  bed, 
or  she  would  have  come  herself." 

"  Then  you  can  go  back  to  her  and  tell  her  I  am  not 
in  need  of  help." 

The  little  page  drew  herself  up,  still  smiling,  and 
twisting  about  her  long  feather.  Something  in  the 
action  recalled  the  treacherous  twitching  about  of  a 
cat's  tail,  betraying  inward  irritation,  so  often  accom- 
panied with  a  loud  purring  intended  to  lead  the  ob- 
server to  believe  the  creature  supremely  content.  Miss 
Arkwright  looked  at  her  sadly. 

"  Will  you  not  come  with  me  to  see  her  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Frankly,  I  will  not." 

"  But  she  is  ill  and  asks  to  see  you." 
1  "  I  am  no  physician." 

"  She  has  told  me  that  your  mother  and  father  are 
most  distressed  at  your  leaving  home.  Will  you  not  go 
to  them  ?" 

"  I  ?     Go  to  my  father  ?     I  would  rather  die !" 

The  girl  drew  back  trembling.  She  put  out  one  hand 
as  though  to  steady  her  steps,  and  as  she  did  so  touched 
the  guitar  which  was  a  stage  property  of  her  part.  She 
sank  on  a  sofa,  grasping  it  nervously,  and,  as  though  thus 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  2$ 

recalled  to  a  sense  of  her  calling,  felt  for  her  watch  with 
the  other  hand,  murmuring  something  as  she  did  so 
about  being  late  for  rehearsal. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  that  I  detained  you  too  long,"  said 
Cynthia,  gently,  "  and  if  you  will  let  me  come  again  at  a 
more  convenient  moment  I  shall  be  glad  to  do  so." 

"Oh,  on  any  other  occasion,  Miss  Arkwright,  I  shall 
be  most  happy,"  said  the  page,  forcing  a  smile. 

Cynthia  felt  a  profound  pity  for  the  little  actress,  as 
she  saw  her  rise  hastily,  with  an  effort  to  regain  her  lost 
composure.  Something  in  the  momentary  view  of  the 
pale,  woe-stricken  face  had  touched  her  heart. 

"  I  wish  I  could  stay  with  you  now !"  she  exclaimed, 
impulsively. 

"  You  are  most  kind,"  said  the  girl,  with  a  return  of 
her  former  manner,  "  but  professional  engagements  are 
pressing." 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  coldly  on  her  visitor,  and  noted 
the  heavy  folds  of  her  silk  pelisse  and  the  length  and 
beauty  of  the  fur  she  wore,  as  she  turned  towards  the 
door  of  the  mean-looking  attic  chamber,  in  which  stage 
finery  and  the  necessaries  of  life  were  tossed  about  in 
hopeless  confusion.  It  may  have  been  partly  owing  to 
these  details  that  a  great  bitterness  of  envy  surged  up  in 
her  soul. 

Cynthia's  hand  was  already  on  the  latch,  when  she 
was  arrested  by  the  clear  cultivated  tones  of  the  actress, 
which  seemed  intended  to  convey  a  covert  meaning. 

"  Perhaps  when  you  see  your  fiance,"  she  said,  "  you 
will  tell  him  of  this  visit.  He  may  be  interested  to  hear 
of  the  anonymous  letter." 

Miss  Arkwright  looked  round  with  a  startled  face. 

"  My  fiance!"  she  repeated,  haughtily. 

"  Yes.  Am  I  mistaken  in  supposing  that  Mr.  Millard 
Henderson  holds  that  proud  position  ?" 

"  I  do  not  mean  to  deny  it,  of  course,"  said  Cynthia ; 
"  but  I  confess  I  am  at  a  loss  to  understand  how  you  can 
be  informed  of  my  engagement  to  Mr.  Henderson  if  you 
did  not  know  my  name." 

B  3 


26  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

"  Might  I  not  know  that  Miss  Cynthia  Arkwright  was 
engaged  without  recognizing  her  by  instinct  ?" 

"  True,  you  might ;  but  the  mystery  is  as  to  how  you 
know  it,  as  my  engagement  has  not  been  announced." 

"  How,  indeed?  You  had  better  ask  Mr.  Henderson 
when  you  show  him  the  letter." 

"  Surely  you  do  not  imagine  that  Mr.  Henderson 
could  have  written  that  letter?  It  is  not  like  him  to  do 
anything  in  that  way,  any  more  than  it  is  like  his  hand- 
writing. You  would  not  think  so  for  a  moment  if  you 
knew  him." 

"  Then  you  imagine  that  I  do  not  know  him  ?" 

"  I  am  under  the  impression  that  you  do  not." 

"  And  I  am  under  the  impression  that  it  is  you  who 
do  not  know  him." 

"  What  is  your  reason  for  saying  that,  beyond  the 
pleasure  of  saying  something  which  will  sound  clever  ?" 

"  I  say  it  because  if  you  did  know  him  you  would  not 
suppose  that  I  could  think  he  had  written  the  letter. 
You  under-estimate  his  good  sense  by  such  a  suggestion, 
or  my  opportunities  of  being  impressed  by  it." 

Miss  Ark wright's  cold  look  of  surprise  changed  to  one 
of  perplexity,  and  then  her  face  cleared  with  an  expres- 
sion of  sympathy  and  understanding. 

"  Ah,  it  seems  that  I  am  wrong,"  she  said,  coming 
back  as  she  spoke  and  taking  the  girl's  unwilling  hand. 
"  It  seems  you  do  know  Mr.  Henderson.  I  am  glad  of 
that." 

"  You  are  glad?" 

"  He  may  help  me  to  help  you.  Perhaps  you  may 
listen  to  him  when  you  would  not  to  me.  He  is  very 
persuasive." 

"  Very !  And  you  will  ask  him  to  play  the  good 
Samaritan  ?" 

The  face  of  the  little  actress  was  inscrutable,  but  there 
rang  in  her  tone  a  note  of  intense  scorn.  It  warned  her 
listener  of  some  hidden  danger  which  seemed  suddenly 
to  have  come  unaccountably  near  to  herself.  Instinc- 
tively she  drew  away  and  braced  her  nerves  to  meet  it. 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  2J 

"  And  if  I  should  ?"  she  questioned  slowly,  keeping 
her  eye  on  that  of  her  antagonist. 

The  page's  eyes  flashed,  and  then  she  dropped  them. 
"  The  scene  would  be  dramatic,"  she  said,  demurely. 
******** 

After  this  interview,  Cynthia  could  not  recall  very  dis- 
tinctly anything  which  had  happened  for  several  days. 
She  knew  that  she  had  returned  from  Baltimore  to  the 
sick-bed  of  her  friend  Mrs.  Pelham  at  Fernwood,  and 
forced  herself  to  describe  all  that  had  been  said  between 
her  and  the  actress  with  an  effort  of  will  the  extent  of 
which  she  bravely  concealed.  Only  of  the  part  of  the 
conversation  which  referred  to  Millard  Henderson,  and 
of  the  look  which  accompanied  Miss  Periwinkle's  words 
with  regard  to  him,  she  had  not  spoken. 

With  the  outline  of  the  story  which  Mrs.  Pelham  then 
proceeded  to  tell  her  she  was  already  familiar.  She  had 
heard  that  Posey  Periwinkle,  the  girl  whom  it  con- 
cerned, was  the  daughter  of  a  Low-Church  Episcopal 
clergyman  with  the  strictest  possible  ideas  of  the  vanity 
of  ail  worldly  amusements.  He  was  said  to  be  in  charge 
of  a  small  parish  on  the  Eastern  Shore  of  Maryland,  a 
quasi-watering-place,  chiefly  known  among  sporting  men 
for  its  game  in  season. 

Here  Mrs.  Pelham,  happening  to  go  for  change  of  air 
one  summer,  had  taken  a  fancy  to  the  girl,  and  asked  her 
to  visit  her  at  her  house  in  Baltimore  the  following  winter, 
and  it  was  a  cause  of  intense  regret  to  Cynthia's  friend 
that  during  this  visit  Miss  Periwinkle  had  obtained  her 
first  glimpse  of  the  stage  and  had  conceived  the  idea  of 
becoming  an  actress.  Hopeless  of  obtaining  her  father's 
consent,  she  had  gone  directly  to  New  York  on  leaving 
Mrs.  Pelham,  who  believed  her  to  have  returned  to  her 
home,  and  who  was  proportionately  shocked  by  a  letter 
from  her  father  asking  where  she  was.  The  girl  mean- 
while, as  they  afterwards  learned,  had  taken  refuge  with 
a  relation  of  her  mother's  until  she  succeeded — no  one 
knew  how — in  inducing  a  manager  of  one  of  the  leading 
theaties  to  give  her  a  trial.  She  had  been  enrolled  as  a 


28  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

member  of  a  travelling  company,  had  left  New  York, 
and  had  not  been  heard  of  again  for  several  years,  when 
two  gentlemen,  returning  from  a  trip  round  the  world, 
recognized  her  under  the  pseudonyme  of  Miss  Cecilia 
Montague,  acting  in  a  society  play  in  San  Francisco. 

The  older  of  the  two  men  was  an  eccentric  artist 
named  Granby  Neil,  who  had  known  the  girl  both  in 
Baltimore  and  in  her  own  home,  and  immediately  on 
his  return  reported  the  encounter  to  Mrs.  Pelham.  The 
younger  was  Mrs.  Pelham's  own  nephew,  a  young  na- 
val officer,  who  had  lingered  after  his  friend  left  San 
Francisco,  returned  by  a  different  route,  and  never 
had  mentioned  the  subject  of  Posey  Periwinkle  to  any 
one. 

It  was  to  this  young  man  whom  she  had  heard  of  all 
her  life,  but  had  met  for  the  first  time  at  Fernwood,  not 
long  after  his  return  from  San  Francisco,  that  Cynthia 
Ark wright  was  engaged  to  be  married,  with  the  knowl- 
edge of  his  aunt  and  uncle,  but  as  yet,  she  supposed,  of 
no  one  else.  He  was  a  handsome  fellow,  with  courteous, 
easy  manners  and  an  expressive  voice,  but  Cynthia  was 
too  sensible  a  girl  for  these  attributes  alone  to  have  in- 
fluenced her.  She  saw  that  he  was  a  man  of  intrinsic 
force  and  energy,  who  would  never  be  satisfied  to  drift 
on  the  current  of  events,  like  so  many  others  of  his  pro- 
fession, giving  nothing  but  the  service  required  for  regu- 
lation pay.  It  was,  indeed,  by  the  scientific  side  of  the 
education  required  in  his  calling  that  he  was  chiefly 
attracted  to  it,  and  Cynthia  was  troubled  by  an  inde- 
finable something  about  him  which  seemed  to  imply  that, 
young  as  he  was,  the  sentiments  of  life  had  lost  their 
illusion  to  him,  although  he  soon  left  her  unable  to  doubt 
that  he  was  ardently  in  love  with  her. 

She  was  dignified  and  proudly  guarded  in  her  first 
reception  of  his  advances,  but  there  was  an  impetuosity 
in  them  at  one  moment,  a  self-distrust  the  next,  which 
were  very  captivating,  even  if  she  had  not  been  won  by  his 
honest  eyes,  his  manly  bearing,  a  certain  vivid  sense  of 
humor,  and  the  sweetness  of  his  smile.  At  last  her  heart 


JiROKEN  CHORDS.  2$ 

was  conquered,  but  she  would  not  consent  to  consider 
herself  as  formally  betrothed  without  the  sanction  of  her 
father,  who  had  been  absent  for  several  months  and  was 
now  on  his  way  home. 

There  was  undoubtedly  an  understanding,  however, 
between  herself  and  Henderson,  when  Cynthia  was  sum- 
moned unexpectedly  to  Fernwood  to  cheer  Mrs.  Pelham 
after  a  short  but  severe  illness,  and  during  the  two  or 
three  weeks  thus  spent  she  had  not  seen  Millard.  They 
had  also  parted  less  serenely  than  she  could  have  wished, 
owing  to  a  childish  difference  about  going  to  church 
together  on  the  last  Sunday  before  she  left  home.  Cyn- 
thia, who  in  those  days  was  a  devout  Roman  Catholic, 
refused  to  go  to  the  Episcopal  church  with  Henderson, 
or  even  to  forego  attending  her  own,  which  Millard  pro- 
posed as  a  compromise,  and  he,  out  of  wounded  pride, 
declined  to  go  with  her  to  mass  as  usual. 

They  had  had  many  differences  of  opinion,  Hender- 
son being  given  to  expressing  rather  materialistic  views 
of  existence  at  times  which  shocked  Cynthia's  faith 
and  pained  her  ardently-religious  temperament,  but  she 
suspected  that  it  was  half  said  to  tease  her,  and  would 
often  be  turned  from  a  frown  to  a  smile  by  the  droll 
twinkle  in  his  eye,  being  unlike  many  earnest-minded 
women  in  that  she  could  always  appreciate  a  humorous 
situation,  even  where  the  fun  was  at  her  own  expense. 
This,  therefore,  was  the  first  disagreement  which  could 
be  said  to  have  awakened  any  feeling  of  anger  on  either 
side,  and  it  left  Cynthia's  heart  all  the  sorer  that  Hen- 
derson did  not  seem  to  understand  that  the  question  in- 
volved was  to  her  one  of  principle,  although  there  had 
been  several  letters  from  him  in  which  he  expressed 
contrition  for  his  obstinacy,  while  evidently  considering 
that  she  should  be  equally  ashamed  of  hers. 

It  was  Millard's  friend,  Granby  Neil,  who  had  called 
on  Mrs.  Pelham  a  day  or  two  before,  and,  on  hearing 
that  she  was  unable  to  receive  him,  had  sent  up  the 
hasty  note,  together  with  his  card,  which  caused  Mrs. 
Pelham  to  make  a  special  request  of  Cynthia  to  go  to 

3* 


30  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

see  Miss  Periwinkle  in  her  stead,  begging  her  to  rea- 
son with  the  unhappy  girl  on  the  folly  of  having  left 
her  home  for  a  life  of  hardship  and  temptation,  and 
try  to  induce  her  to  come  to  see  her,  in  the  hope  that 
she  might  persuade  her  to  give  up  the  stage  and  return 
to  her  father's  protection. 

Not  only  had  Cynthia  failed  in  this,  but  she  felt  that 
there  was  cause  for  perplexity  and  half-confessed  anxiety 
in  much  that  she  had  learned,  and  when  she  left  her 
friend  a  few  days  later  to  return  to  her  own  home  she 
was  a  prey  to  both ;  although  she  made  the  most  in- 
genious efforts  to  explain  to  herself  the  cause  of  her 
fears,  and,  when  these  failed,  resolved  not  to  think  at 

all  until  they  could  be  set  at  rest. 

******  *  * 

The  next  scene  which  stood  out  clearly  in  her  recol- 
lection was  after  her  father's  return.  She  remembered 
how  eagerly  she  had  hurried  home  to  welcome  him, 
and  that  some  delay  in  the  train  had  lost  her  the  oppor- 
tunity of  seeing  him  privately  before  the  hour  for  meet- 
ing the  whole  family  at  dinner. 

The  day  chanced  to  be  Thanksgiving,  and  should  have 
been  to  her  one  of  rejoicing,  but  was  hardly  that,  in  spite 
of  the  gladness  she  felt  at  seeing  her  father  again.  The 
effort  she  made  throughout  the  many  courses  of  the 
family  dinner  to  sustain  her  part  in  the  conversation 
was  due  to  her  knowing  that,  although  he  loved  his 
younger  child,  Mr.  Arkwright  cared  more  for  her 
greeting  than  for  that  of  all  the  others  put  together. 
His  eyes  dwelt  on  her  from  time  to  time  with  watchful 
anxiety,  as  though  he  detected  the  undercurrent  of  sad- 
ness and  oppressive  though  vague  fear  which  she  was 
vainly  trying  to  throw  off. 

At  last  the  repast  was  over.  Little  Nathalie,  a  girl 
about  nine  years  old,  who  was  her  father's  only  child  by 
his  second  wife,  had  come  to  kiss  them  all  good-night, 
and  lingered  to  hang  about  her  half-sister  Cynthia,  whose 
beauty  she  greatly  admired.  When  the  after-dinner  talk 
among  the  ladies  in  the  drawing-room  was  begun, 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  3! 

Cynthia  felt  that  she  could  relapse  into  silence  and  the 
absorption  of  her  own  thoughts.  From  these  she  was 
roused  by  a  clear,  decided  ring  at  the  door-bell, — a  ring 
which  she  knew  well, — quickly  followed  by  the  entrance 
of  Millard  Henderson.  He  was  a  manly-looking  fellow, 
with  a  deep  voice,  a  winning  manner,  and  a  touch  of 
easy  gallantry,  by  which  he  did  not  generally  lose  in 
the  favor  of  women  ;  but  the  deep  blush  with  which  he 
entered  the  room  and  the  almost  boyish  frankness  of 
his  greeting  were  equally  natural  to  him,  and  among  his 
chief  attractions  to  Cynthia,  as  she  took  them  for  evi- 
dences of  a  modesty  and  sincerity  of  character  which  she 
prized  very  highly. 

His  embarrassment  on  this  especial  evening  was  partly 
due  to  Cynthia's  presence  and  the  slight  breeze  which 
had  ruffled  the  surface  of  the  understanding  between 
them  at  parting,  which  rendered  his  position  all  the  more 
trying  from  the  fact  that  their  engagement  was  not  yet 
openly  acknowledged.  Cynthia  watched  him  furtively 
from  her  corner  of  the  fireplace  while  he  parried  a  host 
of  reproaches  from  Mrs.  Arkwright  and  her  three  talka- 
tive daughters  as  to  why  he  had  not  been  to  the  house 
for  so  long,  etc.,  and  noted  the  skilled  air  of  simplicity 
with  which  he  marshalled  his  excuses,  wondering  how 
he  would  manage  to  see  her  father  alone,  to  whom,  he 
had  told  her,  he  meant  to  speak  at  the  very  earliest 
opportunity. 

At  last  the  preliminaries  were  over  and  he  escaped  to 
Cynthia's  side,  where  he  became  as  another  man.  She 
knew  she  had  an  influence  over  him  such  as  she  had  not 
seen  exercised  by  any  one  else,  of  which  he  was  equally 
conscious,  for  his  eyes  were  eloquent  as  they  met  hers. 

"  I  have  seen  Mr.  Arkwright,"  he  said,  hurriedly. 

"  So  soon  !     What  did  he  say  ?" 

"  It  is  all  right.  I  met  him,  by  the  most  fortunate 
chance,  on  his  very  first  arrival,  and  came  home  with 
him.  We  were  closeted  in  his  study  for  more  than  an 
hour." 

"  Then  he  consents  ?" 


32  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

"  He  consents,"  replied  Henderson,  smiling  down  at 
her,  "  on  one  condition." 

"  And  that  is  ?" 

"  Guess." 

"  Impossible." 

"  That  I  shall  never  try  to  influence  you  to  give  up 
your  faith  in  the  Roman  Catholic  Church.  Do  you 
think  I  could  ?" 

"  Of  course,  no  one  could ;  but  how  strange  that  my 
father,  who  is  not  himself  a  believer  in  the  Church  of 
Rome,  should  exact  that  assurance  !" 

"  He  told  me  that  he  had  promised  your  mother  that 
you  should  many  no  man  who  would  not  give  this 
pledge,"  replied  Henderson,  speaking  gravely  this  time, 
and  with  reverence  of  tone  and  manner  born  of  sym- 
pathy. "  Shall  we  tell  them  ?"  he  asked  more  lightly, 
indicating  the  group  at  the  other  end  of  the  room. 

"  Oh,  not  yet !  In  fact,  I  want  to  speak  to  you " 

began  Cynthia  with  some  agitation,  and  then  broke  off, 
for  at  that  moment  her  father  entered  from  the  dining-- 
room. Mr.  Arkwright  was  a  tall  man,  like  Henderson 
himself,  with  a  stately  carriage  and  a  fine  head.  It  was 
from  him,  in  fact,  that  his  daughter  inherited  much  of 
her  grace  and  dignity  of  bearing.  His  iron-gray  hair  was 
smoothed  away  from  a  thoughtful  brow.  As  he  ad- 
vanced slowly  he  held  out  a  hand  to  each  of  them, 
looking  searchingly  into  Cynthia's  face.  Perhaps  it  had 
changed  since  dinner-time.  The  reassuring  presence  of 
her  lover  may  have  driven  back  the  shadow  of  distrust 
and  doubt.  At  any  rate,  she  understood  his  meaning 
now,  as  well  as  those  other  wistful  glances,  which  she 
had  surprised,  and,  if  she  could  not  meet  his  gaze  frankly, 
could  disguise  any  lurking  uneasiness  which  may  still 
have  lain  at  the  bottom  of  her  soul. 

The  young  people  had  stood  up  in  response  to  his 
mute  greeting,  and  as  Cynthia  answered  his  silent  ques- 
tioning by  a  proud  bend  of  the  head,  he  laid  their  hands 
solemnly  in  each  other,  then  turned  to  Mrs.  Arkwright 
and  formally  announced  the  engagement. 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  33 

Precisely  what  followed  Cynthia  did  not  strive  to 
recall.  There  had  been  a  few  moments  of  dumb  amaze- 
ment on  the  part  of  the  girls  and  of  the  awkwardly 
feigned  surprise  on  that  of  their  mother  with  which  a 
foregone  conclusion  is  often  met,  and  then  some  conven- 
tional congratulations. 

The  entrance  of  other  visitors  had  created  a  fortunate 
diversion,  and  Millard  Henderson  reminded  Cynthia  that 
there  was  something  about  which  she  wished  to  speak 
to  him,  suggesting  the  music-room  as  a  suitable  place 
for  the  confidence.  This  dainty  aesthetic  little  chamber, 
whither  they  betook  themselves,  opened  with  folding 
doors,  across  which  fell  silken  curtains  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  entry  from  the  drawing-room.  There  were  a 
harp,  a  piano,  a  banjo  resting  on  a  gilded  chair,  and  a 
beautiful  sunny  landscape,  by  Richards,  hanging  above 
a  satin-covered  sofa. 

Henderson  moved  towards  the  sofa,  and  they  sat  down 
in  silence.  During  the  pause  which  followed  she  noted 
every  minutest  detail  of  the  room's  familiar  furnishing, 
while  she  felt  his  eyes  upon  her,  and  tried  to  nerve  her- 
self to  meet  them  as  she  wished  to  do,  but  it  was  no  easy 
matter.  Cynthia,  who  was  of  a  strong  nature  cast  in  a 
large  mould,  was  royally  in  love.  She  had  quite  deter- 
mined how  she  would  open  the  present  interview,  but 
she  felt  there  was  no  time  to  lose,  or  the  opening  of  it 
would  not  be  left  to  her. 

"  I  want  to  ask  you,"  she  began  at  last,  "  whether 
you  ever  met  a  girl  whom  I  saw  for  the  first  time  a 
week  ago,  and  who  tried  to  make  me  believe  she  knew 
you  well." 

"  Yes  ?  Who  was  the  girl  ?"  he  responded,  possess- 
ing himself  of  one  of  her  hands  with  playful  mastery. 
"  What  was  her  name  ?"  he  added,  carelessly. 

"  Her  name "  she  repeated,  and  then  paused,  but 

when  she  gave  it  her  voice  was  clear  and  firm. 

"  Certainly,"  said  Millard,  in  a  quiet  tone.  "  I  met 
her  years  ago,  and  then  last  autumn."  He  dropped 
Cynthia's  hand. 


34  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

"  But  have  you  met  her  here, — lately  ?" 

He  looked  surprised  and  flushed  hotly.  "  I  have  met 
her  once,  but  I  do  not  wish  you  to  do  so,"  he  said, 
decidedly.  There  was  a  silence.  She  had  begun  to 
reproach  herself  for  speaking  at  all. 

"  Why  do  you  ask  ?"  he  added  presently,  with  some 
effort. 

Cynthia  told  briefly  the  story  of  her  meeting  with 
the  actress,  and  what  had  passed  between  them,  until 
she  reached  the  climax  of  the  interview,  when  she 
stopped  abruptly. 

Henderson,  who  had  risen  from  the  sofa,  took  a  step 
or  two  away,  with  a  little  movement  of  pain  and  horror ; 
then  turned  and  stood  still  before  her,  with  a  fixed 
expression. 

"  Well,  she  told  you  I  should  be  interested  in  the 
letter,"  he  said,  quietly.  "Where  is  it?"  His  tone  was 
not  conscious,  but  guarded. 

"  I  have  kept  it  on  purpose  that  you  may  see  it,  if 
you  wish ;  but  do  you  really  wish  to  see  it  ?" 

"  Why  not  ?  I  shall  then  know  what  is  being  said 
about  me.  Since  you  believe  these  stories,  it  is  im- 
portant." 

"  About  you,  Millard  ?  The  note  is  not  about  you, 
nor  are  there  any  stories !  I  was  only  indignant  at  her 
way  of  speaking,  as  if  she  knew  something  that  I  did  not. 
Do  you  think  me  likely  to  believe  anything  against 
you  ?" 

"  Then  why  have  you  spoken  to  me  at  all  on  the  sub- 
ject ?" 

"  Surely  you  understand :  it  was  that  you  might  clear 
yourself  of  these  strange  insinuations." 

"  Very  good  of  you,  I  am  sure.  You  had  better  get 
the  letter." 

She  rose  with  an  impulsive  movement  as  though  she 
would  have  asked  him  to  forgive  her  for  her  half-formed 
suspicion,  it  seemed  to  her  in  that  moment  so  unworthy 
of  herself  and  him,  but  he  did  not  or  would  not  see  the 
appealing  glance,  and  she  slowly  left  the  room.  When 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  35 

she  returned  he  read  the  letter,  and  then  stood  for  some 
moments  at  the  window,  gazing  into  the  darkness  of  the 
night  with  a  sort  of  hopeless  misery  in  his  face. 

Cynthia  was  thinking  what  she  could  say  to  convince 
him  that  she  did  not  associate  him  in  any  way  with 
its  contents.  The  idea  of  his  imagining  that  she  could 
seriously  suspect  him,  because  she  thought  it  loyal  to 
tell  him  what  she  found  it  so  hard  to  understand, 
pained  her  intensely ;  but  how  to  express  this  ?  Some- 
thing of  the  suffering  love,  the  tender  faith  in  him, 
which  had  deemed  it  only  right  to  give  him  the  very 
first  opportunity  to  silence  calumny,  must  have  shown 
in  her  face,  for  his  anger  melted  as  he  met  her  eyes, 
and  he  held  out  his  arms  to  her  with  a  look  of  love 
and  reverence,  but  as  suddenly  drew  back,  overcome, 
perhaps,  with  a  thought  of  his  unworthiness,  and  hid  his 
face  between  his  hands.  She  watched  him  with  a  bewil- 
dered sense  of  coming  evil. 

"  What  is  it,  Millard  ?     Speak  to  me,"  she  entreated. 

Henderson  could  not  speak.  It  was  as  if  he  were 
trying  to  master  an  awful  sense  of  shame.  The  mo- 
ments seemed  like  hours,  and  each  one  told  its  hideous 
tale  to  her  anxious  spirit. 

"  For  God's  sake,  let  me  know  all !"  Cynthia  said,  at 
last.  "  I  only  ask  for  that." 

"  How  can  I !  How  can  I !"  he  burst  out  passion- 
ately. "  Oh,  Cynthia,  oh,  my  love,  I  am  a  wretch !  I 
dare  not  tell  you  what  I  am." 

Cynthia  drew  a  step  back.  She  gazed  at  him  still 
with  gradually-dilating  eyes.  "  Do  you  mean  that  that 
letter  referred  to  you  ?  Speak,  Millard, — do  you  mean 
that  it  was  true  what  that  girl  insinuated  ?" 

"  She  could  say  nothing  too  bad  of  me." 

"  She  said  she  knew  you  better  than  I  did." 

He  started.  "  That  is  not  true,"  he  cried.  "  You 
know  me  as  no  other  woman  ever  has,  or  ever  will,  but 
I  have  known  her  longer,  and  have  done  her  a  great 
wrong.  Now,  Cynthia,  you  know  all." 

All  ?     It   seemed  to  her  that  she  had  been  told  of 


36  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

more  than  all  the  evil  that  there  could  be  in  the  world ! 
Involuntarily  a  something  that  was  between  a  sigh  and 
a  groan  burst  from  her,  but  she  uttered  no  reproach. 
Speechless  and  dry-eyed,  she  turned  away,  and  would 
have  gone  proudly  from  the  room,  but  that  he  caught 
desperately  at  her  hand  and  forced  it  to  his  lips. 

She  stood  still,  and  strove  to  withdraw  the  hand, 
but  she  did  not  move  a  muscle  of  her  face  or  turn  her 
eyes  upon  him. 

"  Cynthia,"  he  said,  "  you  will  not  give  me  up  ?" 

"  I  must." 

"  How  can  you  ?" 

"  How  can  you  ask  ?  Have  you  not  been  visiting  this 
other  woman  while  you  wrote  as  you  have  been  doing 
to  me,  even  in  the  last  few  days  ?"  She  snatched  her 
hand  from  him  with  the  strength  of  horror. 

"  I  swear  I  have  not !  I  have  seen  her  once  only,  and 
that  unexpectedly,  ten  days  ago.  It  was  then  that  I 
sought  an  opportunity  of  telling  her  of  my  engage- 
ment. You  need  not  look  at  me  so,  Cynthia.  It  was 
a  cruel  thing  to  do,  I  know,  but  it  had  to  be  done." 

"And  the  letter?" 

"  I  cannot  account  for  that,"  said  Millard,  "although 
I  know  by  the  handwriting  the  crazy  fool  who  wrote  it. 
He  may  have  been  referring  to  some  one  else,  or  pos- 
sibly may  have  seen  me  talking  to  her  on  that  one 
occasion.  Now  that  I  think  of  it,  he  was  at  the  theatre, 
and  it  was  there  I  met  her.  I  remember,  too,  that  I  once 
suspected  him  of  fancying  the  girl  himself,  which  may 
account  for  his  absurd  interference."  There  was  a  long 
silence.  "  Listen,  Cynthia,"  he  began  again.  "  I  am  not 
going  to  excuse  myself, — I  can't, — but  you  should  know 
the  truth.  I  met  this  girl  when  I  was  a  mere  boy,  and 
admired  her,  but  never  gave  her  a  second  thought 
until  less  than  a  year  ago,  when  by  a  curious  train 
of  circumstances  I  was  thrown  with  her  in  a  foreign 
city  and  given  daily  opportunities  of  making  a  fool  of 
myself.  It  was  a  sort  of  madness,  and  it  was  all  before 
I  kne  v  you.  I  had  not  seen  her  since  until  the  accidental 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  37 

meeting  of  which  I  told  you.  It  is  a  sorry  tale  enough, 
but  I  have  not  been  quite  so  perfidious  as  you  seem  to 
think." 

Cynthia  was  gazing  straight  before  her,  clasping  and 
unclasping  her  hands,  with  compressed  lips  and  brows 
contracted  with  her  mental  pain. 

"  It  is  well,"  she  said,  at  last ;  "  we  part  less  bitterly." 

"  We  must  not  part !"  He  stepped  to  her  side  with  a 
determined  air. 

"  We  must." 

"  I  love  you." 

"  I  believed  that  once." 

"  You  know  it  now." 

A  violent  trembling  seized  her.  It  was  the  protest  of 
weak  human  nature  against  the  suffering  which  she  was 
resolved  to  make  it  endure. 

With  an  effort  she  turned  towards  him  and  forced 
herself  to  meet  his  pleading  eyes.  He  took  her  hand 
again  in  both  his  own. 

"  Millard,"  she  said,  "you  say  this,  which  is  like  offer- 
ing me  bread  when  I  am  starving,  but  the  bread  is 
poisoned !  If  I  did  not  know  what  you  have  told  me 
I  might  help  you  to  act  a  wicked  part,  and  wake  up  to 
realize  it  too  late ;  therefore,  while  you  love  me,  I  will 
never  see  you  again."  She  made  an  attempt  to  disen- 
gage her  hand  a  second  time,  but  he  held  it  with  fierce 
obstinacy.  * 

"  What  am  /  to  do  ?"  he  asked.  "  Do  you  no  longer 
care  what  becomes  of  me  ?" 

"  Marry  her,  Millard.     It  is  your  duty." 

"  Suppose  I  will  not  ?  Unless  I  marry  you,  I  marry 
no  one,"  he  said,  hoarsely. 

"  Then  you  refuse  the  only  means  left  to  you  of  regain- 
ing the  respect  in  which  I  once  held  you." 

"  You  did  respect  me  ?" 

"  How  tenderly,  how  reverently,  God  knows  !" 

"  Is  that  all  past  ?" 

"  It  would  not  be  quite  all — I  think  I  could  again, 
Millard,  if  you  did  your  duty.  Will  you  ?" 


38  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

"  Marry  another,  when  I  love  you  ?  Ask  me  anything 
but  that !" 

"  Then  I  can  never  respect  you  again." 
"  How  could  you  respect  me  if  I  did  such  a  thing  ?" 
She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  in  which  she  felt  his  arm 
creep  about  her  waist. 

"  This  is  what  I  think,"  she  said  at  last,  slowly,  and 
she  laid  her  head  against  his  shoulder  with  a  sort  of  per- 
suasive gentleness.  "  I  think  that  if  a  man  try  to  atone 
for  what  he  has  done  he  is  a  man,  even  though  he  has 
done  more  wrong  than  ever  he  can  undo." 

"  But  think,  Cynthia,  think  what  you  require.     It  is 
not  atonement,  it  is  self-annihilation.     And  reflect,  dear 
heart,  on  what  you  will  suffer." 
She  drew  away  from  him  at  once. 
"  That  I  must  not, — I  will  not.     Millard,  let  me  go  !" 
"  My   love !    my   love !"    he   cried,   passionately,   "  is 
there  no  penance  you  will  demand  of  me  but  this  one  ? 
I  will  go  to  the  ends  of  the  earth.     I  will  not  see  you  for 
years.     Anything  but  take  a  step  which  shuts  me  out 
from  all  hope  of  the  one  being  I  love  !" 

"  You  forget,  Millard,  you  have  taken  that  step." 
She  was  still  trembling,  but  her  voice  was  once  more 
firm,  only  she  seemed  to  begin  to  fear  the  endurance  of 
her  strength. 

In  the  energy  of  his  last  appeal  he  had  flung  himself 
on  his  knees,  with  his  arm  still  around  her,  as  he  looked 
beseechingly  into  her  face,  and  stooping  for  one  con- 
soling instant,  in  which  her  pure  lips  rested  on  his  brow, 
she  tore  herself  from  his  grasp  by  a  sudden  movement 
and  fled  away,  leaving  him  half  stunned. 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  39 


CHAPTER    V. 

ON  the  evening  of  the  day  when  he  had  excited  his 
wife's  displeasure  by  being  late  for  luncheon,  Millard 
Henderson  remained  in  his  especial  study  after  the  other 
members  of  the  household  had  retired. 

The  room  in  question  was  to  be  called  the  library. 
It  was  as  yet  not  furnished  with  shelves  enough  to  hold 
the  books,  which  lay  about  on  chairs  and  tables  in 
groups  which  represented  order  to  their  owner,  being 
classified  as  to  subject.  Yet  they  seemed  evidence  to  the 
restless  mind  of  Mrs.  Henderson  of  the  most  hopeless 
confusion.  The  sight  of  them  caused  her  indeed  such 
discomfort  that,  having  been  firmly  repulsed  when  she 
attempted  an  arrangement  more  in  harmony  with  her 
taste  and  a  pleasing  effect  on  the  eye,  the  lady  declared 
that  she  would  not  go  into  "  that  room  again"  until  the 
new  shelves  were  put  up  and  it  was  fit  to  be  seen. 

Perhaps  her  husband  was  not  very  regretful  of  this 
determination.  It  may  have  been  no  deprivation  to  have 
his  sanctum,  even  for  a  short  time,  to  himself;  but  if 
this  were  true,  he  was  careful  not  to  say  it. 

After  looking  reflectively  into  the  fire  for  some  twenty 
minutes,  Henderson  drew  towards  him  an  old-fashioned 
leather- covered  desk,  which  he  opened  with  a  small  key, 
and  took  out  a  flatly-folded  note  on  stiff  paper,  the 
creamy  tint  of  which  had  become  darker  with  time. 
He  unfolded  it  slowly  and  read  the  following  words,  in 
a  distinct  handwriting,  although  somewhat  wanting  in 
regularity,  as  though  a  pressure  of  haste  or  strong 
feeling  might  have  impelled  the  pen  of  the  writer : 

"  MY  DEAR  MILLARD, — 

"  I  write  to  say  a  last  farewell.  I  believe  that  you  will 
do  your  duty,  and  I  pray  that  you  may  be  gathered  into 
the  true  Church,  and  that  in  another  world  we  may  meet 


40  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

agnin.  As  for  me,  I  have  decided  to  take  the  veil,  and 
before  this,  reaches  you  shall  be  far  on  my  journey  to  the 
only  earthly  home  that  I  shall  ever  know. 

"  As  always, 

"  CYNTHIA." 

This  was  the  note  which  he  had  found  at  his  rooms 
on  his  return  from  one  of  many  fruitless  attempts  to  see 
Cynthia  at  her  father's  house,  after  the  interview  recalled 
by  her  in  the  last  chapter.  It  was  in  fact  the  note 
which  had  sealed  his  fate.  It  had  put  a  finishing  stroke 
to  the  conviction  of  the  inevitable  outgrowth  of  conse- 
quences from  his  own  rash  act,  which  had  been  stirring 
within  him  ever  since  his  confession. 

There  is  a  type  of  man  that  cannot  be  moved  by  the 
strongest  entreaty  or  the  most  persuasive  tenderness, 
who  will  yet  yield  to  a  logical  sequence,  and  there  are  other 
men  who  will  not  listen  to  reason,  but  may  be  conquered 
by  a  woman's  tears.  Henderson  strictly  belonged  to 
neither  class,  being  open  to  all  influences,  unfortunately, 
of  head  and  of  heart ;  but  it  so  happened  that  in  this 
case  what  reason  had  begun  in  the  very  teeth  of  passion 
strong  feeling  came  in  to  reinforce  and  develop. 

It  is  probable  that  if  the  woman  he  loved  had  con- 
tinued to  live  in  the  world,  surrounded  by  the  homage 
and  admiration  amid  which  he  had  courted  her,  jealousy 
and  the  consciousness  of  his  loss  would  have  embittered 
rather  than  softened  him,  but  with  the  sense  of  depriva- 
tion came  a  sudden  revelation  of  the  depth  of  the  love 
he  had  won  from  her,  while  the  stern  consistency  of  her 
self-abnegation  with  that  which  she  required  of  him 
acted  as  a  call  to  arms  upon  his  higher  nature.  If  she 
could  thus  lay  down  all  the  brightness  of  her  life  for 
what  she  thought  was  right,  surely  it  were  not  too  much 
to  expect  that  he  who  had  sinned  should  consummate  a 
sacrifice.  Henceforth  his  love  for  Cynthia  became  en- 
shrined in  his  heart  as  a  feeling  akin  to  worship.  It  was 
strangely  stirred  to-night  with  perplexity  and  doubt. 
He  knew  that  Cynthia  Arkwright  had  started  on  her 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  41 

long  sad  journey  accompanied  only  by  her  father,  who. 
having  done  everything  in  his  power  to  dissuade  her 
from  her  sudden  desire  to  retire  from  the  world,  had 
at  last  consented  with  deep  trouble  of  spirit,  seeing  that 
nothing  would  shake  the  ardor  of  her  determination,  and 
he  divined  that  her  father  was  the  only  person  to  whom 
Cynthia  permitted  the  suspicion  of  some  reason,  which 
could  not  be  explained  or  overcome  by  her,  for  her 
strange  resolution  to  break  her  betrothal. 

He  remembered  how  shocked  and  deeply  distressed 
his  aunt,  Mrs.  Pelham,  had  been  at  the  rupture  between 
them  ;  how  she  complained  that  Cynthia  would  tell  her 
nothing  of  her  reason  for  it ;  how  she  had  used  every 
argument  to  induce  her  to  see  that  she  was  entirely 
mistaking  her  duty  in  this  sudden  resolution  to  go  into 
a  convent  in  St.  Augustine ;  and  then  how  her  sympathy 
finally  went  out  to  him  rather  than  to  her  friend. 

Thus  to  Henderson,  as  to  others,  had  Cynthia  van- 
ished from  the  world  that  knew  her,  and  the  manner  of 
her  going  had  been  a  nine  days'  wonder  in  the  society 
from  which  she  fled,  and  then  as  time  went  by  ceased 
to  be  referred  to  or  remembered.  When  it  was  known 
fifteen  months  later  that  Mr.  Arkwright  was  at  the  point 
of  death,  there  was  indeed  a  little  talk  of  the  bygone 
subject,  and  the  unnatural  conduct  of  a  girl  who  could 
forsake  a  loving  parent  for  the  cold  routine  of  convent 
life  was  dwelt  upon  in  an  edifying  manner.  Henderson 
never  told  Granby  Neil  of  the  irreparable  mischief  he 
had  made,  but  he  avoided  him,  for  he  had  been  one  of 
the  few  confidants  of  his  love  for  Cynthia ;  nor  did  they 
meet  again.  A  few  weeks  later  the  artist  set  out  with  a 
company  of  other  adventurous  fellows  for  the  region  of 
the  Yellowstone  River  and  the  great  National  Park.  On 
their  way  thither  they  were  attacked  by  a  band  of  hos- 
tile Indians,  and  several  of  the  party  were  killed,  Neil 
among  the  number. 

It  chanced  that  Henderson  was  on  the  way  to  New 
York,  where  Miss  Periwinkle,  or  rather  "  Miss  Cecilia 
Montague,"  as  her  name  appeared  on  the  play-bills, 

4* 


42  BROKEN  CHORDS, 

was  then  acting,  when  he  heard  this  news.  He  well 
remembered  the  shock  it  had  been  to  him  to  come  upon 
it  unexpectedly  in  the  paper,  and  the  rush  of  contrition 
with  which  he  thought  of  the  resentment  which  he  had 
harbored  against  Neil  as  the  innocent  and  unconscious 
cause  of  his  misery.  It  may  have  been  partly  owing  to 
grief  at  the  loss  of  his  friend  that  he  approached  the 
theatre  in  much  the  same  spirit  that  he  would  have  gone 
to  visit  a  grave. 

Vainly  had  he  striven  to  conquer  the  distaste  he  felt  for 
all  connected  with  the  girl  his  fatal  weakness  towards 
whom  had  proved  the  downfall  of  his  hopes,  but,  in  spite 
of  every  effort  to  think  of  her  with  tenderness  and  for- 
bearance, he  shrank  from  the  meeting.  He  had  resolved 
that  he  would  seek  her  now,  let  it  cost  him  what  it 
would,  but  he  never  quite  forgot  the  thrill  of  something 
like  pain  he  felt  when  the  voice  of  the  little  actress  broke 
upon  his  ear  in  the  midst  of  a  prayer  for  forgiveness  to 
her  stage  husband,  and  then  how  unexpectedly  he  was 
touched  and  lifted  out  of  himself  by  the  wild  look  of  glad- 
ness in  her  face,  which  told  that  she  had  distinguished 
and  recognized  him  amid  all  the  crowded  audience. 

It  was  his  only  sensation,  except  that  of  sullen  anger  or 
passionate  regret,  since  Cynthia  went  away,  and  it  brought 
in  its  wake  a  series  of  associations  connected  with  his 
first  meeting  the  girl,  years  before,  in  her  country  home, 
where  her  austere  but  simple-hearted  father  had  bidden 
him  welcome.  He  remembered  how  he  and  his  much 
older  friend,  Mr.  Neil,  had  gone  on  a  shooting  excursion 
to  Dunstable,  on  the  Eastern  Shore  of  Maryland,  and  how 
he  had  indulged  in  what  he  considered  an  innocent  boyish 
flirtation  with  the  parson's  pretty  daughter.  He  remem- 
bered how  jealous  Neil  had  seemed  of  the  girl's  prefer- 
ence for  him,  and  how  angry  he  had  been  with  him  for 
stealing  a  kiss  when  he  said  farewell.  He  could  still 
look  back  without  shame  or  any  special  regret  on  these 
early  days,  although  there  might  be  little  doubt  that  in 
them  were  sown  the  seeds  of  the  strong  attachment  which 
the  unhappy  girl  had  conceived  for  him,  but  how  he 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  43 

hated  himself  now  for  his  conduct  in  San  Francisco  six 
months  back,  when  he  had  been  tempted  into  lingering 
after  his  friend  was  obliged  to  go,  and  had  been  led  on 
from  one  step  to  another,  with  no  intention  of  doing 
wrong,  until  the  harm  was  done ! 

The  months  since  that  parting  had  made  sad  havoc 
with  the  girl's  freshness  and  beauty,  but  when  the  play 
was  over  and  he  found  his  way  behind  the  scenes,  he 
saw  beneath  the  paint  and  powder,  the  dark  curly  wig 
and  blackened  brows  of  the  actress,  the  eyes  he  once 
thought  sweetest  shining  on  him  with  the  old  light  of 
love.  Alas,  poor  Posey !  There  would  have  been  no 
more  question  in  Henderson's  dull  heart  whether  he 
still  loved  her  if  there  had  been  no  Cynthia  Arkwright 
in  existence,  or  so  he  thought.  And  yet  the  eyes  were 
as  bright  as  ever,  and  the  warm  blood  leaped  up  behind 
the  rouge  on  her  thin  cheek,  and  her  whole  aspect  of 
feverish  excitement,  while  it  contrasted  sadly  with  the 
glimpse  he  had  just  recalled  of  the  once  pretty,  care- 
less face  of  the  little  maiden,  spoke  of  her  unchanged 
affection  for  him.  Some  impulse — perhaps  the  natural 
association  of  his  lost  friend  with  her  whom  they  had 
met  together,  or  else  a  desire  to  gain  time  and  to  conceal 
the  feeling  of  guilt  and  wretchedness  which  crept  over 
him  at  the  sight  of  the  agitation  which  she  vainly  strove 
to  hide — led  Henderson  to  begin  by  speaking  to  Posey 
of  the  news  he  had  just  heard  of  the  death  of  Neil.  It 
seemed  the  last  stroke  needed  to  break  down  her  self- 
control. 

"  Mr.  Neil  dead — dead  !"  she  repeated,  in  a  tone  of  dull 
wonder,  while  her  cheeks  grew  livid  through  their 
ghastly  covering,  her  darkened  eyelids  closed,  and  she 
would  have  fallen  had  he  not  caught  her  in  his  arms. 
She  remained  as  though  senseless  for  a  moment,  but  just 
as  he  was  about  to  call  for  aid  she  rallied  and  quickly 
drew  away  from  him.  Seeming  to  summon  all  her 
forces  to  her  command,  while  darting  upon  him  a  look 
of  startled  reproach,  she  asked,  "  Did  you  come  here  to 
tell  me  of  the  death  of  your  friend?" 


44  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

Henderson  began  to  protest.  A  belated  sense  of 
chivalry  awoke  within  him,  and  he  threw  the  whole 
force  of  his  will  into  the  resolve  to  lift  her  out  of  the  de- 
spair that  he  had  caused,  to  avert  the  threatened  disgrace, 
and  to  give  her  his  protection  and  his  name,  which  were 
all  he  had  to  give. 

Posey  listened  to  him  at  first  with  an  expression  he 
could  not  fathom.  It  was  a  mixture  of  joy  and  pain,  of 
glad  surprise  and  incredulity. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  it  is  me  whom  you  will 
marry?  Now? — At  last?  Do  you  know  no  reason 
that  you  may  not?"  she  asked,  with  panting  breath. 

He  looked  at  her  sadly,'  searchingly,  with  a  gaze 
before  which  her  new-born  hope  grew  pale,  but  all  he 
said  was,  "  I  know  every  reason  why  I  should,"  and  so 
this  strange  new  bond  was  sealed. 

On  the  whole,  the  marriage  had  not  turned  out  ill. 
It  had  been  performed  at  once,  in  the  most  private  manner 
possible,  but  had  made  no  apparent  difference  in  the  in- 
dignation and  condemnation  with  which  Posey's  father 
still  regarded  her,  for  she  told  Henderson  that  she  had 
written  home  on  the  subject,  yet  her  letter  had  been  re- 
turned unanswered.  After  only  the  delay  requisite 
while  Henderson  made  such  arrangements  as  were 
necessary  for  a  prolonged  visit  to  Europe,  they  went 
abroad.  Posey  knew  nothing  of  Cynthia's  renunciation, 
and  took  Henderson's  self-surrender  as  a  tribute  to  her 
superior  charms.  This  soothing  influence  on  her  heart, 
or  on  her  wounded  vanity,  or  on  both,  seemed  to  have  a 
sweetening  effect  on  her  disposition,  which  had  been  in 
danger  of  becoming  hard,  and  contemptuous  of  all  kind- 
ness, while  she  believed  herself  cast  off  and  despised. 
They  remained  abroad  for  a  year,  at  the  end  of  which 
they  were  joined  in  Homburg  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pel- 
ham,  who  found  Posey  improved  in  manner  and  conver- 
sation, and  that  when  she  made  an  effort  to  please  she 
could  do  so  effectually.  They  passed  a  summer  happily 
together  in  Switzerland,  and  it  was  only  when  her  hus- 
band talked  of  leaving  her  that  Posey  showed  what 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  45 

seemed  to  these  elderly  relations  the  strangest  distrust 
and  uneasiness.  She  besought  him  not  to  forsake  her  in 
a  "  foreign  land,"  and  yet  she  shrank  from  accompanying 
him  back  to  America,  although  he  told  her  that  his 
whole  professional  career  would  be  sacrificed  by  a  con- 
tinued absence.  In  short,  the  tendency  to  a  selfish  dis- 
regard for  the  feelings  of  others  had  not  diminished  in 
her  with  a  life  of  ease. 

She  was  always  complaining,  it  was  hoped  only  half 
in  earnest,  of  the  trouble  her  baby  boy  gave  her,  but 
there  could  be  no  doubt  of  a  certain  strange  jealousy 
which  she  developed  with  regard  to  Henderson's  love 
for  the  child.  Perhaps  it  was  the  expression  of  an 
unacknowledged  consciousness  that  the  depths  of  his 
nature  were  not  stirred  by  his  affection  for  her.  He  had 
grown  fond  of  his  wife,  however,  and,  even  when  she 
combined  the  airs  of  an  invalid  with  those  of  a  spoiled 
child,  seldom  failed  to  show  her  that  forbearance  which 
he  believed  to  be  her  due. 

Yet  he  was  as  a  hungry  man  seated  at  a  table  where 
the  food  was  all  too  light  to  satisfy  his  craving,  and  was 
beginning  to  fret  at  his  life  of  enforced  idleness  abroad. 
Mrs.  Pelham  and  her  husband  both  saw  this,  and  Mr. 
Pelham  resolved  that  his  nephew,  who  was  essentially  a 
man  of  action,  should  not  be  forced  to  resign  from  the 
navy  by  his  wife's  caprice.  He  soon  elicited  from  Hen- 
derson the  confession  that  his  one  desire  was  to  return 
to  America  at  the  end  of  the  year's  leave  of  absence 
which  had  been  granted  him,  and  apply  for  active  service. 
He  persuaded  him,  in  spite  of  many  objections  from  his 
fair  partner,  to  leave  Posey  and  her  child  in  Europe 
under  his  aunt's  care.  Millard  was  thus  free  to  return  to 
his  own  country,  which  he  promptly  did,  obtaining  for  his 
first  duty  a  three  years'  voyage  to  Japan,  on  accomplish- 
ing which  he  deemed  himself  most  fortunate  in  hearing 
that  an  Arctic  expedition  was  just  preparing  to  start. 
The  dangerous  character  of  the  duty  exactly  suited 
his  mood.  He  wrote  to  his  wife  almost  joyfully  that 
although  there  were  many  other  applications  his  was 


46  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

accepted,  and  felt  more  reconciled  to  himself,  more 
nearly  glad,  on  the  day  he  sailed  forth  thus  to  brave 
hardship  or  death,  than  he  had  felt  since  the  unhappy 
incident  which  led  to  his  marriage. 

Meanwhile,  William  Arkwright  had  died,  leaving  all 
his  worldly  goods  to  his  only  child  by  his  second  wife, 
who,  with  Nathalie  and  her  other  daughters,  was  travel- 
ling abroad ;  and  Mrs.  Pelham,  who  met  the  bereaved 
lady  at  Lucerne,  wrote  to  Millard  indignantly  of  how, 
with  a  show  of  plaintive  regret,  the  sorrowful  widow 
was  wont  to  say,  "  What  a  pity  it  was  that  poor,  dear 
Cynthia  would  go  and  make  a  stained-glass  window  of 
herself!" 

It  was,  perhaps,  only  natural  that  Posey  should  have 
felt  herself  a  much-injured  person  when  she  learned  how 
little  chance  there  was  of  Henderson's  returning  from  the 
inaccessible  fastnesses  of  the  Polar  seas,  and  should  then 
and  there  have  assumed  the  airs  of  a  martyr,  which 
she  never  entirely  laid  aside,  although  her  husband  was 
one  of  the  few  survivors  of  the  disastrous  exploration, 
and  hastened  to  join  his  family  in  Paris  as  soon  as  he  was 
able  to  travel,  where  he  was  told  of  all  his  sins. 

It  did  not  appear  to  him  that  Mrs.  Henderson  was 
having  a  very  hard  time  of  it  when  he  got  back.  She 
was  in  better  health  than  when  he  had  left  her,  and  with 
her  health  had  recovered  much  of  her  beauty.  She  was 
going  a  good  deal  into  society  among  the  American  set  in 
Paris,  and  receiving  attention,  in  a  general  way,  as  it  came, 
with  the  mixture  of  coquetry  and  assumption  that  was 
natural  to  her  After  duly  denouncing  him,  she  accepted 
his  excuses,  but  complained  that  he  had  grown  too  thin, 
and  had  lost  something  of  his  "  grand  air." 

His  uncle  looked  far  from  well.  In  fact,  Mr.  Pelham 
lived  only  five  or  six  months  after  his  nephew's  return, 
and  between  this  time  and  that  of  his  death  at  Carlsbad 
in  the  following  year  Henderson  devoted  himself  to  him. 
No  son  could  have  been  more  faithful  or  more  tender. 

There  had  always  been  an  unusually  warm  affection 
felt  by  the  uncle  for  Millard,  who  was  the  orphan  child 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  47 

of  a  favorite  sister,  and  of  late  years  the  bond  had  grown 
closer  and  stronger  through  silent  sympathy.  Henderson 
had  long  known  that  it  was  his  uncle's  intention  to  make 
him  his  heir,  but,  as  he  had  inherited  some  fortune  from 
his  father,  he  had  not  given  the  subject  much  thought. 
He  now  learned  for  the  first  time  of  Mr.  Pelham's  ear- 
nest desire  that  he  should  resign  from  the  navy  after  his 
death  and  settle  down  to  the  life  he  himself  had  led,  of 
a  country  gentleman,  combined  with  that  of  a  manu- 
facturer, as  he  wished  to  leave  him  his  share  of  the  busi- 
ness and  the  cotton-mills  of  Dundaff,  with  the  rest  of  his 
estate.  Yet  he  urged  this  only  in  case  Millard  had  had 
enough  of  wandering. 

The  plan  thus  suggested  would  have  seemed  intoler- 
able to  Henderson  some  years  before,  but  his  thirst  for 
experience  and  adventure  had  been  satisfied  for  the  pres- 
ent, and  he  longed  for  rest.  Then,  too,  there  were  reasons 
why  it  would  be  best  that  his  wife  should  live  in  a  country 
neighborhood  rather  than  attempt  to  mingle  with  old 
city  acquaintances  with  inconvenient  memories.  Last, 
but  not  least,  Millard,  who  was  more  of  a  reader  than 
most  men  who  love  out-door  life,  had  found  among  the 
books  which  composed  the  floating  library  of  his  part  of 
the  expedition  to  the  Northern  seas  a  few  volumes  on 
socialistic  subjects,  in  which  he  had  become  much  in- 
terested. He  had  possessed  himself,  on  his  return,  of 
the  works  of  St.-Simon,  Fourier,  and  Rodbertus,  and 
conceived  a  longing  to  solve  the  problems  or  confute 
the  statements  of  these  men  and  their  noisy  successor, 
Carl  Marx.  Thus  his  uncle's  plan  opened  new  and  un- 
thought-of  opportunities  for  experiment  in  the  line  of 
speculation  lately  begun,  and  he  caught  at  it  almost 
eagerly. 

To  his  great  grief,  and  to  the  sincere  regret  of  Posey, 
Mrs.  Pelham  entirely  refused,  after  the  death  of  her  hus- 
band, to  accompany  them  back  to  America,  but  promised 
to  follow  them  home  in  the  course  of  a  few  months. 

Thus  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Millard  Henderson  returned  to 
their  native  land.  They  opened  the  long-closed  house 


48  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

at  Fernwood.  They  refurnished  and  decorated  it  in 
modern  style,  entirely  in  conformity  to  the  taste  of  Mrs. 
Henderson ;  and,  although  not  sanguine  as  to  the  success 
of  his  first  efforts,  having  learned  that  he  should  have  his 
uncle's  old  partner,  now  his  own,  against  him,  Henderson 
had  begun  to  look  forward  with  eager  interest  to  the 
improvements  he  thought  of  making  in  the  management 
of  the  factory.  He  even  hoped  to  bring  about  a  change 
for  the  better  in  the  condition  of  the  workers,  and  had  a 
plan  for  their  moral  elevation,  as  well  as  for  their  material 
comfort,  which  absorbed  him  to  the  exclusion  of  the 
small  annoyances  of  daily  life.  He  was  still  deep  in 
speculative  revery  when  on  that  memorable  Sunday 
morning  he  suddenly  turned  from  the  picturesque  pros- 
pect of  hills  and  valley,  to  see  the  face  of  the  woman  he 
had  loved  and  lost  flash  out  upon  him  from  a  cottage  case- 
ment, and  then  disappear,  leaving  him  in  blank  surprise, 
a  victim  to  the  vaguest  fears,  the  most  tormenting  doubts, 
forming  and  rejecting  the  most  unlikely  theories,  to  ac- 
count to  himself  for  her  presence  in  this  village,  so  far 
from  the  shelter  of  the  cloister  which  he  believed  her  to 
have  sought  and  found. 

Late  into  the  night  he  sat  and  thought,  his  mind  recur- 
ring to  each  little  incident  of  the  past,  but  without  finding 
any  clue  to  the  mystery  which  his  heart  would  accept; 
for,  whatever  else  might  be  true  of  Cynthia,  he  was  sure 
that  it  was  not  true  she  could  be  capable  of  playing  a 
part,  nor  was  it  like  her  to  undertake  anything,  great  or 
small,  which  she  did  not  carry  out  to  the  appointed  end. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

LEDYARD  had  been  installed  nearly  a  month  in  his  new 
parish,  and  was  beginning  to  know  and  be  known  by  all 
the  villagers,— was  even  counted  remiss  if  he  failed  to 

cognize  and  interchange  greetings  with  any  of  the 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  49 

regular  members  of  his  flock.  He  was  welcomed  to  the 
houses  of  every  one  of  his  vestrymen,  and  had  been 
honored  by  an  invitation  to  dine  at  Camelot,  for  the 
Bettertons  were  marshalled  under  a  new  leader  since 
Mrs.  Pelham's  day,  and  as  soon  as  the  young  clergyman 
appeared  in  Dundaff  they  were  all  marched  to  St.  An- 
drew's, to  hear  him  preach,  by  Miss  Florence  Betterton, 
a  pretty,  merry,  downright  sort  of  girl,  who  had  lately 
returned  from  boarding-school,  and  whose  big  black 
eyes  and  rosy  cheeks  sorely  beguiled  the  village  doctor. 
She  had  taken  a  great  fancy  to  Mr.  Ledyard,  and  had 
urged  him  so  eagerly  to  visit  her  at  Camelot  on  a  certain 
day  in  the  week  when  she  and  her  mother  were  an- 
nounced to  be  "  at  home,"  as  to  induce  him  to  give  a  rash 
promise  that  he  would  do  so. 

It  was,  perhaps,  hardly  palatable  to  perceive  the  placid 
indifference  of  the  superior  congregation  of  the  Rev. 
Simon  Ashmead  to  the  fact  of  his  existence,  or  to  endure 
the  lofty  condescension  with  which  that  existence  was 
recognized  by  their  pastor,  but  he  suspected  that  they 
would  have  been  as  little  likely  to  interest  him  as  their 
humbler  imitators  in  Dundaff,  and  the  real  source  of  his 
solicitude  was  the  forlorn  little  settlement  of  working 
men  and  women  and  children  collected  about  the  huge 
factory  buildings  on  the  other  side  of  the  river,  while  only 
a  few  stray  representatives  of  this  population  had  yet 
ventured  inside  his  church. 

He  was  seated  with  a  half-finished  sermon  before  him 
one  evening,  reflecting  on  this  subject,  when  the  thought 
of  Cynthia  Arkwright  suddenly  flashed  into  his  mind. 
Since  the  day  when  he  had  first  seen  her  his  acquaintance 
with  Miss  Arkwright  had  not  advanced  beyond  a  slight 
feeling  of  consciousness  on  his  part  when  he  met  her  by 
chance  in  the  narrow  village  street.  He  felt  a  certain 
odd  satisfaction  in  recognizing  her  sombre  face,  for  a 
fancy  had  seized  him  that  its  pitying  sadness  showed  a 
rooted  incredulity  and  a  remoteness  from  spiritual  com- 
fort which  it  was  given  to  him  alone  fully  to  fathom. 
There  may  have  been  some  truth  in  this  conception 
c  d  5 


jO  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

if,  as  has  been  asserted,  scepticism  be  only  faith  re- 
versed; but  Cynthia  Arkwright  gave  him  no  further 
opportunity  of  studying  her  mental  attitude,  for  after 
that  first  Sunday  he  looked  for  her  in  vain.  She  came 
no  more  to  church. 

He  was  thinking  this  evening  of  something  he  had 
been  told  with  regard  to  her  which  interested  him 
deeply.  He  had  learned,  quite  by  accident,  that  Miss 
Arkwright  had  a  little  circle  of  factory  girls,  whom  she 
was  teaching  to  sew,  and  of  boys,  who  came  to  read  with 
her  on  two  evenings  in  the  week.  Of  course  these  facts 
were  not  of  general  interest,  as  her  pupils  were  only  of 
the  outlawed  tribes  of  "  mill-hands,"  but  for  this  very 
reason  they  seemed  of  particular  importance  to  Richard 
Ledyard. 

He  was  wondering,  as  he  sat  nibbling  abstractedly  the 
end  of  his  pen-holder,  whether  an  extension  of  Miss  Ark- 
wright's  methods  might  not  be  the  very  best  way  of  influ- 
encing these  people.  It  was  evident  that  they  would  not 
come  to  him,  so  he  must  go  to  them,  he  thought,  and  he 
must  try  to  find  some  common  ground  on  which  they 
would  meet  him. 

While  thus  plunged  in  speculation,  he  was  surprised 
by  a  visitor,  who  proved  to  be  the  village  doctor.  He 
was  a  man  some  ten  years  older  than  Ledyard,  tall, 
gaunt,  and  fair-haired.  He  had  been  a  surgeon  in  the 
Union  army  during  the  civil  war,  and  had  seen  the 
inside  of  Libby  Prison,  the  marks  of  which,  in  wasted 
limb  and  hollow  cheek,  he  still  bore  about  with  him, 
spite  of  many  years  of  a  free  life  in  the  Southwest  It 
seemed  probable  that  he  would  carry  them  to  his  grave. 

The  doctor  came  in  with  a  cautious  hesitancy  which 
was  akin  to  shyness,  but  was  cheered  and  brightened 
under  Ledyard's  hearty  hospitality  into  a  more  genial 
frame  of  mind.  In  truth,  Richard  was  delighted  to 
have  his  loneliness  thus  broken  in  upon,  and  at  the 
opportunity  of  conversing  with  an  intelligent  person, 
who  might  be  expected  to  take  an  interest  in  something 
besides  Dundaff. 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  51 

Passing  from  one  to  another  of  the  topics  of  the  day, 
while  Dr.  Danforth  stowed  away  his  long  legs  comfortably 
under  the  table,  leaning  back  as  he  did  so  in  Ledyard's 
largest  leather  chair,  they  fell  on  the  Egyptian  wa»*,  the 
conduct  of  which  by  the  English,  with  the  chances  of 
saving  Gordon  and  relieving  Khartoum,  happened  to 
be  the  most  important  question  that  was  appealing  to 
the  world  just  then. 

It  proved  to  be  a  subject  of  peculiar  interest  to  both 
men  from  different  points  of  view,  for  Richard's  strongest 
sympathy  was  aroused  by  the  noble  ambition  and  self- 
forgetful  character  of  Gordon,  while  Dr.  Danforth  was 
especially  critical  of  the  military  tactics  of  the  English, 
which  did  not  meet  with  his  approval.  Gordon  himself, 
in  spite  of  undeniable  courage,  was  in  his  eyes  nothing 
more  nor  less  than  a  religious  fanatic  of  a  rather  danger- 
ous kind,  since  he  had  the  power  of  persuading  others 
to  believe  his  illusions. 

"  Mark  my  words,"  he  said  to  Ledyard, "  he  is  a  doomed 
man.  He  can  no  more  avoid  the  treachery  of  those  Arabs 
than  the  English  can  reach  Khartoum  in  time  to  save  it 
by  the  way  Sir  Garnet  Wolseley  has  chosen." 

"  Well,  after  all,  that  is  not  so  bad,"  replied  Richard, 
"  to  be  doomed  to  be  a  hero.  One  could  bear  much  if 
one  saw  before  one  so  grand  a  consummation." 

fie  lighted  a  cigar  as  he  spoke,  after  offering  one  to 
his  visitor,  but  Danforth  preferred  a  short  meerschaum 
pipe,  which  he  produced  from  his  pocket. 

"  It  is  a  matter  of  opinion,  of  course,"  he  said,  in 
answer  to  Ledyard's  last  remark.  "  A  useless  sacrifice 
of  life  never  looks  grand  to  me,  but  foolhardy,  and  when 
I  am  told  of  a  hero  I  like  to  hear  what  he  has  accom- 
plished." 

"  If  you  are  chiefly  interested  in  the  object  for  which 
he  is  working,  that  is  natural  enough,"  rejoined  Ledyard, 
"  although  it  is  subordinating  him  to  it ;  but  to  know  that 
he  died  nobly,  even  to  envy  him  for  it,  it  only  seems 
necessary  to  know  the  motive  which  inspired  him  to 
brave  death.  If  when  examined  there  does  not  appear 


52  BROKEN  CHORDS 

to  be  any  practical  good  in  the  object  he  is  striving 
for,  I  can  easily  understand  that  he  should  merely 
appear  quixotic  to  practical  men  like  yourself;  Kut  if 
striving  to  bestow  some  real  benefit  upon  others,  you 
surely  do  not  consider  a  defeated  hero  less  a  hero  than 
a  conquering  one?" 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that.  I  am  very  like  my  neigh 
bors,  and  there  is  a  good  deal  of  the  innate  love  of 
success  in  most  hero-worship." 

As  Danforth  finished  speaking  there  was  a  knock  at 
the  rectory  door,  succeeded  by  a  sound  of  low  voices  in 
the  entry,  in  the  midst  of  which  the  name  of  "  Dr.  Dan- 
forth" could  plainly  be  distinguished.  Both  men  rose, 
and  the  next  moment  a  tall  female  figure  was  ushered 
into  the  study,  and  Ledyard  found  himself  face  to  face 
with  Cynthia  Arkwright 

He  advanced  a  step  to  meet  her,  and  then  stood  still, 
so  much  surprised  that  he  had  no  words  with  which 
to  express  himself,  when  she  spoke  in  a  quiet  tone 
which  seemed  to  proclaim  her  absolute  unconsciousness 
of  anything  unusual  in  the  situation. 

"  I  have  come  for  Dr.  Danforth,"  she  began,  looking 
past  Ledyard  at  Danforth ;  then,  as  if  suddenly  realizing 
the  want  of  ceremony  with  which  she  had  entered,  she 
turned  back  to  him  and  added,  "  I  have  come  from  a 
poor  boy,  whom  I  think  dying.  I  have  only  a  moment. 
You  will  excuse  my  intrusion." 

It  was  characteristic  of  her  that  she  did  not  ask  to  be 
excused,  but  rather  demanded  it. 

"  Of  course.  I  am  glad  the  doctor  was  here,"  said 
Ledyard,  in  the  same  matter-of-fact  way,  as  if  it  were 
an  eyery-day  affair  to  have  his  study  invaded  by  severe- 
looking  young  ladies. 

"  I  want  you  to  see  him,  please,  at  once,"  she  continued 
to  Dr.  Danforth. 

The  complete  absence  of  self-consciousness  in  her 
manner,  combined  with  what  Ledyard  concluded  to  be  a 
natural  imperiousness  of  tone,  appeared  to  operate  like 
a  spell  upon  Danforth's  more  deliberate  temperament. 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  53 

"  I  will  go  at  once,"  he  answered,  suiting  the  action  to 
the  word. 

Cynthia  looked  at  Ledyard. 

"  Shall  I  come,  too  ?"  he  asked,  gravely,  not  sure 
whe'her  he  were  correctly  interpreting  the  glance. 

"  Would  it  be  a  trouble  ?"  she  answered,  with  more  of 
hesitation  in  her  manner  than  she  had  shown  at  all. 

"  Certainly  not." 

"  I  think  he  might  like  to  see  you,"  she  said,  thought- 
fully. 

Ledyard  was  surprised,  having  his  own  little  theory 
of  Miss  Arkwright's  want  of  faith,  while  Danforth,  who 
shared  the  popular  impression  that,  although  eccentric 
in  her  disregard  of  forms,  she  was  a  Roman  Catholic, 
was  equally  astonished.  However,  she  had  been  at 
his  church,  Ledyard  reflected.  Indeed,  it  was  a  fact  he 
never  forgot. 

"  Pray  let  me  come,"  he  said,  aloud. 

"  As  you  please." 

Danforth  was  already  outside  the  door,  and  Cynthia 
only  dropped  these  words  over  her  shoulder  as  she  fol- 
lowed him,  but  Ledyard  was  not  discouraged.  In  a 
moment  he  had  joined  them,  and  all  three  were  descend- 
ing the  hill  by  a  narrow  pathway,  Cynthia  gliding  on 
ahead  with  great  rapidity,  as  though  intending  to  show 
the  way. 

"  Can  you  not  tell  me  where  the  house  is,  Miss  Ark- 
wright?  It  is  surely  not  necessary  that  you  should  go 
yourself,"  said  Danforth,  in  a  tone  of  remonstrance. 

"  I  can,"  she  replied ;  "  but  I  am  going  back  at  any 
rate.  They  are  very  helpless.  There  was  no  intelligent 
person  to  send  for  you,  or  I  should  not  have  left  them." 

"  Has  the  boy  been  ill  long?"  asked  the  doctor. 

"Oh,  no;  he  was  hurt  in  the  mill  only  this  evening. 
They  came  and  told  me  at  once." 

"  Ah  !  I  see.     He  is  one  of  your  scholars,  perhaps?" 

"  He  is  one  of  the  boys  of  my  reading-class." 

There  was  no  more  said.  They  all  moved  on  in 
silence. 


BROKEN  CHORDS. 


CHAPTER    VII. 

As  he  watched  the  tall,  graceful  figure  of  Cynthia 
Arkwright  flitting  before  him  through  the  darkness, 
Ledyard  felt  almost  inclined  to  doubt  whether  he  were 
sleeping  or  waking.  His  thoughts  had  centred  round 
the  thought  of  her  and  of  her  strange  story  for  so  many 
weeks,  in  which  she  herself  had  seemed  as  unap- 
proachable as  a  cloud  at  sunrise,  that  he  could  hardly 
believe  that  the  distant  vision  had  drawn  near  in  this 
simply  human  form,  and  had  even  stooped  to  appeal 
to  him,  whose  opinions  she  had  seemed  so  plainly  to 
disdain. 

He  remembered  how  he  had  thought  of  her  only  this 
very  evening  in  connection  with  his  failure  to  attract  the 
really  needy  of  his  congregation  to  listen  to  him,  so  that 
it  almost  seemed  as  if  her  summons  were  a  direct  answer 
to  his  ardent  wish  to  do  his  duty  in  a  direction  in  which 
she  alone  could  help  him. 

Meanwhile  he  and  Danforth  followed  their  guide  down 
the  hill,  through  the  village,  across  the  bridge,  and  turned 
abruptly  to  the  left,  taking  a  road  which  passed  along 
the  farther  bank  of  the  river  and  led  between  two  of  the 
large  factory  buildings  to  where  a  number  of  small  houses 
stood  close  together  and  closer  still  to  the  water's  edge. 
Indeed,  they  were  built  on  a  narrow  strip  of  land  which 
separated  the  shallow  river  from  the  swift- flowing  mill- 
dam,  and  only  connected  with  the  road  by  here  and  there 
a  slender  bridge. 

Cynthia  crossed  one  of  these  bridges  accompanied  by 
her  companions,  and  quietly  opened  the  door  of  the 
house  nearest,  from  which  a  feeble  light  shone  out  into 
the  darkness.  Danforth  and  Ledyard  hastened  to  enter. 
The  room  in  which  they  found  themselves  comprised  the 
whole  lower  story  of  the  dwelling.  A  small  cooking- 
stove  at  one  side  showed  a  few  glowing  embers,  before 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  55 

which  was  a  group  of  four  children,  the  largest  of  whom 
could  hardly  have  been  seven  years  old.  She  was  seated 
on  a  three-legged  stool,  with  her  foot  on  the  rocker  of  a 
cradle  in  which  were  two  babies, — one  not  old  enough  to 
walk,  and  the  other  two  years  old,  perhaps.  The  younger, 
a  poor,  thin  little  creature,  lay  fast  asleep  with  its  head 
in  the  lap  of  the  older  baby,  who  sat  bolt  upright,  look- 
ing supernatu rally  solemn  as  it  seemed,  while  a  little  chap 
of  about  five  lay  on  the  floor  beside  the  others,  kicking 
his  heels  in  the  air  and  munching  a  bit  of  bread. 

The  oldest  person  in  the  room  was  a  girl  of  ten  or 
eleven,  who  stood  beside  a  narrow  bed  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  entrance,  the  head  of  which  was  placed  in  the 
shadow  of  a  rough  wooden  staircase.  Here  lay  the  lad 
who  was  hurt,  his  face  thus  shaded  from  the  light  of  a 
candle  stuck  into  the  mouth  of  a  bottle  that  stood  on  the 
table.  He  looked  fearfully  pale  in  the  semi-darkness. 
His  eyes  were  closed,  and  he  moved  from  side  to  side  as 
though  in  pain. 

Miss  Arkwright  approached  the  bed,  where  a  patch- 
work quilt  covered  the  restless  little  figure,  and  spoke 
a  word  or  two  softly  to  the  girl,  calling  her  by  name. 
Danforth  took  the  candle  from  the  table  and  came  be- 
hind Cynthia.  As  its  light  fell  on  him  the  boy  opened 
his  eyes  with  a  look  of  fear. 

"  Go  away,  Tommy.  Stop  spying  at  me,  will  you  ? 
I  ain't  a-goin'  to  die  yet !"  he  cried,  in  a  hoarse  whisper. 
"  Oh,  it's  you,"  he  added,  in  an  altered  tone,  indicative 
of  great  relief,  as  his  eyes  met  those  of  Cynthia.  "  I 
thought  you  wasn't  never  coming  back,"  he  added, 
stretching  out  his  hand  eagerly.  She  took  it  and  stroked 
it  gently. 

There  was  nothing  to  be  done.  Danforth's  examina- 
tion, which  lasted  only  a  few  minutes,  quite  satisfied  him 
of  that.  The  child  had  fallen  through  a  hole  in  the 
flooring  intended  for  the  passage  of  a  wide  leather  belt, 
which  happened  not  to  be  in  place  at  the  time,  as  it  was 
just  after  work  had  stepped,  his  sister  said.  He  had  been 
twisted  in  his  fall,  and  had  come  in  collision  with  the  edge 


56  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

of  the  great  iron  wheel  round  which  the  band  was  meant  to 
fit,  while  the  wheel  was  still  in  motion,  although  revolving 
with  slackened  speed.  His  fall  was  thus  precipitated, 
and  he  was  dashed  upon  the  ground  with  so  much  force 
as  to  be  picked  up  senseless. 

There  were  two  ribs  broken,  Danforth  said,  and  there 
were  internal  injuries,  he  told  Ledyard,  from  which  it  was 
impossible  that  the  poor  child  could  recover.  They  both 
looked  pityingly  at  Miss  Arkwright,  for  it  was  evident 
that  her  heart  was  very  tender  towards  the  helpless  chil- 
dren. She  seemed  prepared  for  the  worst,  however,  and 
when  she  was  warned  only  begged  Danforth  to  give  the 
boy  something  which  would  spare  him  pain.  Before  he 
took  the  anodyne,  however,  she  stooped  down  and  whis- 
pered to  him. 

"  Is  that  the  parson  ?"  he  asked,  turning  his  haggard 
eyes  towards  Ledyard. 

"  Yes,  the  new  parson,  who  told  of  those  things  you 
wanted  to  know  more  about. — It  was  in  your  first  sermon 
here,  Mr.  Ledyard,"  continued  Miss  Arkwright,  turning 
hurriedly  to  Richard,  "  that  you  spoke  of  the  effect  of  a 
good  example  in  little  things,  and  of  the  difference  be- 
tween being  an  example  and  following  one.  I  was  telling 
my  boys  about  it  afterwards ;  you  know  they  do  not  go 
to  church." 

"  I  know.     I  wish  they  did." 

She  made  no  direct  answer,  but  only  added,  "  Jimmy 
wanted  to  have  an  example  more  fully  explained  than  I 
could  explain  it.  I  think  it  might  comfort  him."  She 
turned  away  as  she  spoke,  and  Ledyard  took  her  place, 
and  talked  to  the  boy  gently  for  a  few  minutes. 

"  Was  an  example  a  thing  for  yourself  or  for  some  one 
else  ?"  Jim  wished  to  know,  and  being  told  that  it  was 
for  some  one  else,  asked,  "  Suppose  the  person  didn't 
want  it  ?" 

Ledyard  smiled,  and  assured  Jimmy  that  one  could  net 
be  certain  of  that,  as  the  other  person  might  need  a  good 
example  all  the  more  because  he  did  not  know  that  he 
wanted  it.  "  Of  whom  were  you  thinking?"  he  added. 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  57 

The  child  was  silent  for  a  moment.  He  was  in  great 
suffering,  one  could  see  by  the  fixedness  of  his  white, 
closed  lips.  Presently  he  glanced  up  at  Ledyard's  com- 
passionate face,  and  something  in  its  expression  seemed 
to  give  him  confidence. 

"  I  was  thinkin'  of  father,"  he  admitted.  "  Father  ain't 
got  no  good  example,  'cause  mother's  dead." 

"  And  did  you  want  to  set  him  one,  my  boy  ?" 

"  I'd  'a'  liked  to  try,  but  where's  the  use  ?  I  can't  do 
nothin'  now,  'cause  I'm  goin*  to  die." 

"  You  are  doing  something  just  at  this  moment,"  said 
Ledyard,  gravely. 

"  What's  that  ?"  asked  Jim,  with  a  startled  look. 

"  You  are  bearing  pain  without  complaint,  and  think- 
ing of  others  rather  than  of  yourself." 

"  But  where's  the  use  ?" 

"  It  is  brave  to  bear  it  so,  and  sets  an  example  which 
is  good  for  others." 

"  I  don't  see  no  use  in  that,  when  I'm  goin'  to  die." 

Ledyard  told  him  that  when  a  person  died  his  ex- 
ample was  even  more  apt  to  be  remembered  than  when 
he  lived,  and  said  that  he  thought  his  brothers  and 
sisters  and  father,  too,  would  all  remember  him  in  years 
to  come. 

"  Like  I  done  mother  ?'"  asked  Jim,  thoughtfully. 

"  Yes,  just  as  you  have  remembered  your  mother." 
And  Ledyard  went  on  to  speak  of  the  greatest  of  all 
examples  which  had  been  set  to  mankind,  and  of  the 
centuries  through  which  it  had  lasted. 

Jimmy  was  still  suffering  torture,  as  one  could  see  by 
the  constant  movement  of  the  little  body  beneath  the 
patched  bed-quilt,  but  he  looked  eagerly  up,  seeming  to 
cling  to  every  word  that  Ledyard  spoke.  A  little  later 
Ledyard  knelt  down  beside  the  boy  and  repeated  the 
prayer  "  for  a  sick  child." 

Then  the  morphia  was  given,  and  the  restless  limbs 
grew  gradually  still. 

"  I  am  sorry  I  cannot  stay,"  said  Danforth.  "  I  have 
several  people  to  see  to-night ;  but  I  will  come  in  again 


eg  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

in  a  couple  of  hours  and  renew  the  dose.  You  will  let 
me  take  you  home  now,  Miss  Arkwright?  There  is 
nothing  more  to  be  done,"  he  added,  in  a  lower  tone. 

"  Thank  you,  doctor ;  I  am  not  going  home,"  she  an- 
swered, briefly. 

The  doctor  looked  about  him  anxiously. 

"  Where  is  your  father  ?"  he  said  to  the  girl. 

"  I  don't  know.     He  ain't  come  in  yet." 

Danforth  glanced  meaningly  at  Ledyard. 

"  The  man  drinks,"  he  said,  laconically. 

"You  had  better  go,  Miss  Arkwright,"  said  Led- 
yard. "  I  will  stay  and  watch  the  boy.  Trust  him  to 
me." 

"  I  have  told  you  that  you  can  do  no  good  by  stay- 
ing," added  Danforth,  impatiently. 

Cynthia  looked  surprised.  She  had  seated  herself 
beside  the  bed,  and  laid  her  hand  on  the  boy's  forehead. 
She  simply  said, — 

"  I  promised  Jimmy  that  I  would  not  leave  him," 
speaking  quietly,  and  rather  coldly. 

"  In  that  case  I  shall  stay  also,"  said  Ledyard.  And 
so  it  was  settled. 

Jimmy  lay  quite  still  after  Danforth  went  away,  and 
Cynthia  remained  silently  beside  him.  Ledyard  sat  for 
a  long  while  on  a  broken  chair  in  one  corner  of  the 
room,  idly  watching  the  children  before  the  fire.  They 
were  very  still.  On  closer  scrutiny  he  perceived  that 
the  absorbing  object  of  the  little  sister  on  the  stool 
was  to  keep  the  sleeping  baby  from  awaking,  and  that 
her  anxiety  in  this  respect  seemed  fully  shared  by  the 
larger  baby,  which,  young  as  it  might  be,  was  bending 
every  effort  not  to  stir  in  its  seat,  lest  it  should  disturb 
its  younger  brother.  To  this  end  it  held  one  tiny  little 
hand  clasped  tightly  in  the  other,  as  though  afraid  of 
being  betrayed  into  some  unintentional  movement,  while 
the  slow,  monotonous  swing  of  the  cradle  constantly 
kept  up  by  the  reiterated  pressure  of  the  sister's  foot 
upon  the  rocker  caused  its  large  infant  head  to  nod  to 
and  fro  with  a  look  of  sleepy  wisdom  that  would  have 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  59 

been  amusing  to  Ledyard  had  it  not  struck  him  as 
infinitely  pathetic. 

The  only  dissenter  from  the  common  spirit  of  the 
group  was  the  kicking  boy.  This  little  urchin,  al- 
though he  refrained  from  outcry  through  the  earnest 
solicitation  of  the  oldest  sister,  Anastasia,  was  never 
quiet  for  one  moment.  He  would  occasionally  give  a 
sly  poke  to  the  cradle  when  he  thought  his  sister 
Mary,  who  was  second  in  command,  was  not  looking ; 
while  once  when  she  got  to  her  feet  to  tuck  the  cover- 
ing around  the  others,  he  pulled  her  stool  away,  and  then 
crept  off  to  a  corner  to  enjoy  the  catastrophe.  This  was 
averted  only  by  the  interference  of  Ledyard,  who  took 
the  mischievous  little  lad  on  his  knee,  and  tried  to 
occupy  his  attention  more  wholesomely. 

By  and  by  all  but  the  sleeping  infant,  who  it  was 
agreed  should  not  be  roused,  had  disappeared  up  the 
winding  stair.  Ledyard  had  taken  his  place  by  the 
bedside,  and  Cynthia  was  rocking  the  baby,  when  they 
heard  the  sound  of  shuffling  footsteps  and  a  heavy 
thump  against  the  door,  which  burst  open  to  admit 
a  rather  well-featured  young  man  of  about  middle  height, 
with  stupid  staring  eyes  and  a  very  red  face. 

He  looked  at  the  boy  in  the  bed  which  was  generally 
his  own,  and  at  the  two  strangers  who  had  taken  pos- 
session of  his  abode,  with  drunken  amazement.  Led- 
yard made  a  sign  to  Miss  Arkwright  not  to  move  or 
speak.  The  man  continued  to  stare  about  him  for  some 
moments,  and  then  solemnly  shook  his  head.  The  situ- 
ation was  certainly  extraordinary,  but  he  had  probably 
met  with  a  number  of  other  peculiar  appearances  in  the 
course  of  his  circuitous  walk  homeward,  and,  as  neither 
the  injured  boy  nor  the  watchers  took  the  slightest  notice 
of  his  entrance,  he  slunk  away  with  a  silly  smile  to  the 
corner  nearest  to  the  fire  and  sat  down  on  a  bench, 
where  he  stretched  out  his  legs  and  remained  gazing 
before  him  for  some  moments,  until  gradually  his  head 
sank  on  his  breast  and  he  fell  asleep. 

This  was  the  best  thing  that  could  have  happened. 


60  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

Cynthia  rose  and  closed  the  door,  which  he  h^l  left 
ajar,  and  came  beside  Ledyard.  There  had  been  no 
words  between  them,  but  in  some  way  there  was  estab- 
lished a  perfectly  practical  understanding.  The  boy  had 
grown  restless  again,  and  needed  all  their  attention  to 
alleviate  his  suffering.  They  consulted  on  the  subject  of 
the  anodyne,  which  had  been  ordered  to  be  given  again 
if  needed,  and  decided  on  a  modified  dose. 

An  hour  later,  when  the  doctor  returned,  they  were 
still  at  their  post.  Jimmy  was  breathing  with  more  and 
more  difficulty,  but  was  happily  unconscious.  The  sound 
of  Danforth's  entrance  had  aroused  his  oldest  sister,  who 
came  stealing  down-stairs.  It  also  aroused  another 
sleeper.  The  drunken  man  by  the  fire  had  awakened, 
and  was  looking  at  them  with  puzzled  disapproval,  when, 
suddenly  recognizing  the  doctor,  he  seemed  for  the  first 
time  to  realize  the  full  meaning  of  what  he  saw.  He 
crossed  the  room  with  uneven  steps,  and,  grasping  Dan- 
forth  by  the  arm,  pointed  with  an  expression  between 
distress  and  fear  at  his  dying  son. 

"  Doctor,  it  wasn't  Jim  that  was  hurt  on  the  wheel  ?" 
he  cried.  "  I  heard  a  boy  was  killed  to-night ;  it  wasn't 
Jim?"  he  added,  in  a  tone  which  aroused  involuntary 
pity  in  the  by-standers.  Before  Danforth  could  answer, 
Ledyard  had  arisen  and  laid  his  hand  gently  on  the 
man's  shoulder. 

"  It  was  a  mistake  about  his  being  killed"  he  said, 
quickly.  "  The  boy  was  hurt,  but  is  still  living.  We 
are  all  here  to  take  care  of  him  and  to  help  you." 

"  You  mean  that  it  was  Jim  ?"  asked  the  father,  look- 
ing from  one  to  the  other  with  growing  certainty. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Baker,"  said  Cynthia,  in  a  pitying,  thrilling 
voice,  "  Mr.  Ledyard  means  that  it  was  Jim." 

Just  at  this  moment  the  boy  opened  his  eyes  and 
looked  full  in  the  man's  face  with  an  odd  reproduction 
of  the  same  emotions  of  distress  and  fear  which  he  had 
shown  himself,  but  merging  into  a  sort  of  tender  shame, 
that  revealed  his  habitual  state  of  feeling  towards  his 
father. 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  6 1 

"I'm  a-goin' to  die,  father,"  he  said,  slowly  "The 
parson  says  I  can  be  an  example  all  the  same,  but  I 
don't  know  what  of.  Ef  I'd  lived,  I  know  I  might  'a'  ben. 
That  is,  not  a  downright  good  un,  but  I  wanted  to  'a' 
helped  you,  father,  and  it  ain't  no  use." 

He  stopped,  exhausted,  but  stretched  his  hands 
towards  his  father.  Cynthia  put  her  arm  round  him 
and  raised  him  up  a  little.  Her  tears  were  silently  rain- 
ing down.  Ledyard  stood  by  her.  Danforth  had 
walked  away.  The  man,  with  his  face  now  ghastly  pale, 
crept  towards  his  son,  knelt  down  with  awkward  passion, 
and  pressed  the  child's  hands  against  his  cheeks. 

They  saw  that  the  boy  still  knew  him,  for  his  face 
changed.  A  look  of  great  peacefulness  dawned  on  it,  and 
he  said  distinctly,  "  I  shan't  forget — you,  father — no  more 
thrui  I  did  mother."  The  last  words  came  very  faintly. 
There  was  no  sound  for  a  moment  but  the  poor  man's 
sobs  and  those  of  his  oldest  daughter,  who  had  pressed 
close  to  his  side.  Then  the  doctor  laid  a  hand  on  the 
child's  forehead,  and  looked  compassionately  at  Cynthia. 

There  was  a  struggle  beneath  the  bedclothes,  a  slight 
stir  in  the  group  about  him,  and  the  boy  was  dead. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

AN  evening  or  two  afterwards,  Ledyard  was  returning 
from  a  long  walk  on  the  farther  bank  of  the  river.  He 
was  beginning  to  think  that  he  had  been  rather  hasty 
in  his  judgment  of  Dundaff  and  its  surroundings,  for 
with  the  coming  of  spring  a  wonderful  sweetness  was 
breathed  into  the  air.  Birds  began  to  sing,  and  blossoms 
to  unfold  like  magic.  The  blue  of  the  river  had  grown 
steadily  bluer.  He  met  the  village  children  coming 
from  the  woods  with  great  bunches  of  anemones  and 
violtls,  and  white  daisies  nodded  amid  the  grass  along 
the  water's  edge. 

6 


62  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

Richard,  who  had  passed  the  last  two  years  of  his  life 
among  the  narrowest  and  dirtiest  streets  of  a  great  city, 
enjoyed  these  unwonted  sights  and  sounds  to  a  degree 
which  surprised  himself.  He  found  that  the  regular 
habits  of  work  and  exercise  into  which  he  had  uncon- 
sciously fallen  lent  new  vigor  to  his  frame,  and  thus 
it  happened  that  as  the  sunset  on  the  leafy  hill-sides 
gleamed  fitfully  across  the  dashing  river,  swollen  with 
winter's  rain,  this  mellow  afternoon,  his  heart  grew 
strangely  light  and  hopeful,  despite  a  feeling  of  indig- 
nation with  which  he  was  struggling  when  he  set  out 
on  his  walk,  at  certain  unkind  things  which  he  had 
heard  said  the  night  before  with  regard  to  Miss  Ark- 
w  right. 

He  had  been  dining  at  Camelot,  where  the  subject 
of  this  lady's  shortcomings  was  always  a  welcome  one  to 
Mrs.  Betterton,  who,  when  brought  to  book,  could  find 
no  better  reason  for  her  severe  strictures  than  the  well- 
known  fact  that  Cynthia  did  not  go  to  church.  How 
strange  it  was,  thought  Ledyard,  that  so  noble  a  char- 
acter as  hers  could  be  so  misunderstood !  His  sym- 
pathy may  indeed  have  been  more  keen  than  the  situa- 
tion demanded,  for  it  is  probable  that  Miss  Arkwright 
had  grown  used  to  the  disapprobation  of  the  community 
in  which  she  lived,  in  this  respect  as  in  many  others  ;  nor 
did  he  do  justice  to  the  effort  which  his  hostess  at 
Camelot  declared  herself  to  have  made  to  judge  of  the 
subject  unprejudicedly.  Mrs.  Betterton  had  been  loud 
in  the  assurance  that  she  did  not  expect  Miss  Arkwright 
to  go  to  the  Episcopal  church  "  like  other  people,"  but 
why  was  she  not  gathered  into  the  flock  to  which  she 
belonged  ?  Mass  and  vespers  followed  each  other  in  the 
Roman  Catholic  chapel  with  fitting  regularity,  and  what 
excuse  could  she  give  for  sitting  quietly  at  her  window, 
with  a  book  in  her  hand, — "  not  a  sacred-looking  book, 
at  that/' — while  all  Dundaff  passed  along  the  road  within 
a  stone's  throw  of  her  retirement  to  its  various  places  of 
worship  ? 

Ledyard,  who  fancied  that  he  held   the  clue  to  this 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  63 

seemingly  inconsistent  conduct,  rather  respected  her  for 
it.  He  had  not  seen  Miss  Arkwright  since  the  death  of 
her  little  scholar,  but  had  had  several  interviews  with 
Andrew  Baker,  the  boy's  father,  and,  being  distinctly 
anti-pessimistic  in  temperament,  was  hopeful  of  helping 
the  man  to  a  better  way  of  living. 

As  he  approached  the  factory  buildings  he  saw  a  dark 
figure  flit  across  the  narrow  bridge  which  spanned  the 
mill-dam  and  turn  into  the  road  a  few  yards  in  advance 
of  him.  Instinctively  he  fell  back  a  little,  with  an  un- 
wonted sense  of  shyness,  even  before  he  was  sure  that 
the  figure  was  that  of  Cynthia  Arkwright,  and  then,  con- 
demning his  own  absurdity  as  he  became  certain  of  her 
identity,  he  hastened  forward,  but  too  late,  for  at  the 
same  moment  another  figure, — that  of  a  man, — which 
loomed  up  tall  and  massive  amid  the  growing  shadows, 
stepped  out  from  the  side  of  the  road,  where  he  seemed 
to  have  been  lingering  beneath  the  overhanging  rocks, 
and  joined  her. 

The  forward  movement  to  which  Ledyard  had  com- 
mitted himself  brought  him  abreast  of  them  in  the  wide 
road  just  as  Miss  Arkwright  became  aware  of  the  other 
person's  presence,  and  evidently  recognized  him,  starting 
away  as  she  did  so  with  a  sharply-drawn  breath  that 
had  almost  been  a  cry.  She  was  so  agitated  that  she 
did  not  see  Richard,  who  passed  rapidly  on  with  a  sense 
of  disappointment. 

It  was  not  until  he  had  left  her  some  yards  behind 
him  that  he  recovered  sufficiently  from  this  feeling  to 
reflect  that  there  had  been  something  very  unusual  in 
Cynthia's  manner  of  greeting  her  would-be  companion, 
and  that  possibly  his  presence  was  not  agreeable  to  her. 
Ledyard  glanced  back  uneasily,  and  perceived,  to  his  sur- 
prise, that  the  two  figures  had  come  to  a  dead  halt  in  the 
middle  of  the  road.  It  even  seemed  as  if  one  of  them — 
that  of  the  man — were  barring  the  further  progress  of 
the  other.  Ledyard  stopped  too.  The  woman  was 
speaking  in  a  clear,  decided  tone  which  brought  her 
words  to  him. 


64  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

"  I  have  shown  you  plainly,  Lieutenant  Henderson, 
that  I  did  not  wish  to  hold  any  communication  with 
you,"  she  was  saying. 

"  And  I  have  endeavored  to  show  you  that  I  was  un- 
willing to  accept  any  such  fiat,"  was  the  answer  ;  "  yet  it 
seems  that  I  surprised — forgive  me  if  I  startled  you." 

"  I  little  dreamed  that  you  would  lie  in  wait  for  me," 
she  replied,  indignantly. 

"  Have  you  left  me  any  other  resort  ?  Surely,  surely, 
Cynthia,  you  will  explain  to  me  your  strange  presence 
here  ?  You  will  tell  me  something  of  your  life  ?"  con- 
tinued the  voice  with  a  note  of  earnest  entreaty,  which 
changed  its  whole  character. 

"  I  do  not  consider  that  you  are  concerned  with  my 
life,"  she  answered,  coldly. 

"  God  of  heaven  !"  he  cried,  passionately.  "  I  only 
wish  that  you  were  not  concerned  with  mine  !  By  what 
excuse  do  you  refuse  all  communication  with  me  now  ? 
Have  I  not  done  what  you  asked  ?  Are  you  not 
satisfied  with  the  ruin  you  have  made  of  me?" 

There  was  a  silence,  in  which  it  seemed  to  Ledyard 
that  the  very  sounds  of  the  night  were  hushed.  He  felt 
in  some  occult  way  that  it  was  filled  with  a  mental 
struggle  before  Cynthia  spoke  again. 

"  Have  you  a  right  to  say  I  ruined  your  life?"  she 
asked,  in  a  sad  tone,  out  of  which  anger  had  gone. 

"  I  have  to  you"  Ledyard  heard  in  answer,  and  stayed 
to  hear  no  more.  Whatever  the  cause  of  Miss  Ark- 
wright's  consternation  at  the  meeting,  or  the  unusual 
position  which  they  seemed  to  hold  towards  one  another, 
it  was  evident  that  no  interference  on  his  part  would  be 
welcomed  by  either,  and  he  had  lingered  longer  than  he 
liked  as  a  mere  listener. 

He  wondered  at  the  state  of  suppressed  excitement  in 
which  he  reached  the  parsonage,  and  called  himself  a 
fool  more  than  once  in  the  course  of  the  evening,  when 
his  thoughts  would  stray  with  anxious  interest  to  the 
strange  interview  which  he  had  surprised. 

Cynthia  meanwhile  had  assumed  an  attitude  which 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  65 

would,  had  he  seen  it,  have  led  to  still  further  perplexity, 
for,  feeling  a  sudden  sense  of  helplessness,  such  as  her 
nature  had  rarely  experienced,  she  clasped  her  hands 
together  and  lifted  them  towards  Henderson,  after  his 
last  words,  with  a  look  of  entreaty. 

"  Pray,  pray  do  not  force  me  to  speak  of  the  past," 
she  pleaded.  "  I  beg  of  you  to  stand  aside  and  let  me 
go  in  peace." 

He  did  so  instantly,  leaving  the  way  clear  for  her  to 
pass  on.  Perhaps  this  very  compliance,  or  something  in 
his  face  at  the  movement,  softened  her  resolution,  how- 
ever, for  before  she  availed  herself  of  her  liberty  she 
hesitated  and  looked  at  him  again. 

"  You  wish  to  leave  me,"  he  asked,  reproachfully, 
"  without  a  word  of  explanation  ?" 

"  What  is  there  to  explain  ?" 

"  Why  did  you  leave  the  convent  ?" 

There  was  another  pause. 

"  Things  there  troubled  me  after  I  became  a  nun," 
she  said,  at  last.  "  I  heard  of  my  father's  illness,  and 
wished  to  go  to  him,  but  knew  I  could  not.  They  said 
I  could  not  without  a  dispensation,  for  I  had  taken  full 
orders." 

"  Poor  child !"  He  stretched  his  hand  towards  her 
impulsively,  then  drew  it  back.  "  Go  on,"  he  said. 

"  I  fell  ill  with  fever,  and  imagined  in  my  delirium  that 
it  was  but  the  want  of  the  archbishop's  permission  which 
prevented  me  from  seeing  my  father.  I  prayed  them 
day  and  night  to  let  me  go  to  him,  until  they  lost  all 
patience.  I  was  desperately  ill.  They  thought  me  at 
death's  door,  and  yet  there  was  a  chance  of  life,  as  there 
often  is  in  those  malarial  fevers,  and  so  they  sent  me 
home,  only  to  find  that  my  father  had  been  dead  a  month, 
and  that  they  had  shipped  me  off  like  any  useless  thing. 
I  longed  for  death,  but  yet  I  could  not  die.  It  was  my 
faithful  old  Marjory  who  nursed  me  back  to  life,  and  I 
tried  to  be  grateful,  but  existence  was  no  great  boon  to 
me." 

There  was  a  pause.     Henderson  heaved  a  deep  sigh. 


66  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

"  It  was  almost  like  returning  from  the  grave,"  he  said. 
"  It  must  have  been  terrible  to  see  the  house." 

"  Think  of  it !"  she  burst  out,  passionately.  "  Think 
of  seeing  the  room  my  father  died  in,  and  knowing  that 
he  longed  for  me  as  I  had  longed  for  him  !  I  believe 
that  I  should  have  gone  mad,  but  that  my  dear  aunt,  the 
only  other  person  besides  Marjory  who  knew  of  my  re- 
turn, brought  me  here  to  shelter  me  and  give  me  a  home." 

"  Did  none  of  your  other  relations  discover  your 
whereabouts?  How  happened  it  to  be  hidden  from 
Mrs.  Arkwright,  from  all  your  friends,  and  from  my 
aunt  ?" 

"  You  forget  that,  except  Miss  Pinsley  and  my  half- 
sister,  who  was  my  father's  chosen  heir,  I  had  no  real 
relations  left.  Nathalie  was  in  Europe  with  my  step- 
mother and  her  family.  They  all  gathered  together  their 
things  and  went  abroad  as  soon  as  my  poor  father  was 
dead.  There  was  no  one  living  in  my  old  home  by  the 
time  I  got  there  but  the  faithful  servant  of  whom  I 
speak.  It  was  in  the  late  summer,  as  it  chanced,  when 
friends  are  scattered,  and  as  soon  as  I  was  able  I  came 
here." 

"  Still,  you  could  have  written.  You  must  have  had 
some  motive  for  your  silence  ?" 

"  My  inaction  might  as  readily  be  accounted  for  by  a 
want  of  motive,"  she  said,  quietly.  "  When  Mrs.  Ark- 
wright returned  from  foreign  travel,  Aunt  Pinsley  and  I 
consulted  together,  but  did  not  feel  that  she  and  her 
daughters  had  any  special  claim  on  my  confidence. 
Nathalie  might  have  been  made  very  uncomfortable  by 
the  knowledge  of  my  existence  outside  the  cloister,  as 
my  father  had  left  all  his  property  to  her,  but  beyond 
this  it  would  have  concerned  them  little." 

"  So  you  gave  up  your  birthright,  your  legal  inheri- 
tance, knowing  that  your  father's  will  had  been  made 
under  a  false  belief?" 

"  Yes,  for  I  had  no  wish  to  correct  that  belief  in  the 
mind  of  any  one,  and  I  feared  Mrs.  Arkwright  would  not 
respect  my  desire  to  remain  secluded." 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  6/ 

"  But  my  aunt,  Mrs.  Pelham,  who  so  loved  and  trusted 
you !  Would  she  not  have  been  likely  to  respect  any 
wish  you  had  ?  Had  she  not  some  claim  upon  your  con- 
fidence ?"  he  asked,  reproachfully. 

"  She  had,  indeed !"  cried  Cynthia,  urged  to  speak  im- 
pulsively, and  a  little  taken  off  her  guard  by  this  appeal 
to  her  loyalty.  "  Mrs.  Pelham  was  always  dear  to  me. 
She  is  now  my  best-loved  friend  on  earth,  but  she,  too, 
was  abroad,  and  has  been  ever  since.  I  should  have  had 
to  write,  and  then  I  knew, — I  feared, — in  fact,  I  was  sure 
it  would  be  impossible  for  her  to  accept  and  hold  my  con- 
fidence. If  I  wrote  to  her  of  my  being  here,  it  would 
almost  inevitably  reach  the  ears  of  others."  She  began 
to  move  forward  as  she  spoke,  and  he  moved  on  beside 
her  as  in  a  dream. 

"  Ah,  that  was  it !"  he  cried.  "  I  see  your  motive  now. 
You  wished,  of  all  things,  to  keep  me  ignorant  of  your 
return!  Was  not  that  why  you. never  wrote  to  Mrs. 
Pelham, — why  you  chose  this  retired  life?"  His  tone 
showed  that  he  was  deeply  moved. 

"  It  was  one  of  my  reasons,  perhaps,"  she  answered, 
cautiously ;  "  but  there  were  many  why  I  did  not  want  to 
become  a  subject  of  further  speculation  in  the  world 
which  I  had  left,  or  to  lead  by  my  reappearance  to  the 
opening  of  old  wounds."  She  spoke  with  calmness,  but 
there  was  a  faint  tremor  in  her  voice  which  he  was  quick 
to  detect. 

"  And  you  have  lived  here  for  years,  and  I  at  times  so 
near,  while  I  thought  you  in  a  nunnery !"  he  exclaimed, 
with  ill-suppressed  emotion. 

"  Yes.  I  have  been  here  for  seven  years,  and  they 
have  seemed  longer.  I  am  much  changed,"  she  an- 
swered. "  I  shall  write  to  Mrs.  Pelham  now,"  she  re- 
sumed after  a  moment's  pause,  as  though  anxious  for  a 
change  of  subject.  "  If  she  must  hear  of  me  again  it 
should  be  from  myself." 

"  There  is  no  such  must"  Henderson  said,  quickly.  "  I 
will  tell  no  one  of  your  being  here  whom  you  do  not 
wish  to  have  hear  of  it.  It  shall  be  an  absolute  secret, 


68  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

if  you  say  so.     I  owe  you  that  much  at  least,  after  in- 
sisting on  this  interview." 

Miss  Arkwright  did  not  answer  for  a  moment,  in  which 
she  looked  steadily  before  her  with  contracted  brow.  She 
was  evidently  anxious  and  perplexed  as  to  the  wisest 
course  to  take,  but  it  probably  occurred  to  her  that  since 
her  retreat  had  been  discovered  by  Henderson,  to  allow 
it  to  be  known  to  him  alone  of  all  her  former  world 
would  be  to  put  herself  in  a  false  position. 

"  No,"  she  said  at  last.  "  It  is  Fate,  or  the  will  of 
God,  which  has  betrayed  my  place  of  refuge.  I  cannot 
hide  it  any  longer." 

"  And  what  do  you  in  your  religion  make  of  the 
strange  coincidence  of  my  being  led,  by  my  uncle's 
legacy,  to  this  very  neighborhood  to  live,  while  believing 
you  to  be  far  away  ?" 

"  So  far  as  I  can  be  said  to  have  a  religion,  it  does  not 
require  me  to  explain  that  fact,"  she  answered,  wtth  a 
return  to  the  colder  tone  in  which  she  had  first  spoken. 

He  had  learned  already  that  it  was  a  mere  weapon 
of  defence,  and  he  hesitated  to  break  it,  with  a  mo- 
mentary touch  of  compunction,  which  soon  passed. 

"  Yet  you  said  just  now,"  he  pursued,  "  that  it  was 
Fate  or  the  will  of  God  which  had  betrayed  your  secret." 

"  I  was  wrong.  I  should  not  have  spoken  as  if  the 
will  of  God  concerned  itself  with  such  small  matters." 

"  You  will  blame  my  less  elevated  mind  that  I  can- 
not look  on  the  circumstance  in  the  same  light,"  he 
said,  presently.  "  To  me  it  is  not  a  small  matter  that 
I  am  to  be  in  daily  and  hourly  temptation.  Such  faith 
as  I  have  leads  me  to  tremble  at  the  prospect." 

"  There  is  no  such  prospect,"  she  said,  indignantly. 

"  You  will  say  next  that  there  is  no  temptation,"  he 
answered,  realizing  quite  distinctly  as  he  did  so  that 
he  was  saying  what  he  should  not  say;  then,  seeing 
that  her  lips  tightened  and  her  pace  quickened,  with 
an  evident  determination  not  to  answer,  he  grew  harder 
and  more  reckless. 

"  Come,  how  do  you  account  for  this  arrangement  of 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  69 

Providence  ?"  he  cried,  scornfully.  "  Surely  you  have 
not  lost  faith  in  your  fetich, — you  have  not  given  up 
your  special  creed?  Are  not  you  and  I  of  as  much 
account  as  sparrows  ?" 

"  I  have  not  lost  faith  in   God,"  she  answered,  sol 
emnly. 

"  And  the  Catholic  Church  ?" 

"  I  have  learned  to  think  it  like  any  other  church." 

He  could  hardly  believe  that  he  heard  aright. 

"  You  are  changed  indeed  !"  he  exclaimed,  astonished, 
even  shocked,  as  he  realized  the  extent  of  the  inward 
upheaval  which  could  have  led  to  such  a  transformation, 
for,  little  as  he  had  sympathized  with  her  religious  con- 
victions, he  knew  that  they  had  been  as  a  part  of  herself. 

"  Yes,  as  I  have  told  you,  I  am  changed  in  every- 
thing." 

They  were  just  entering  the  village,  and  as  she  spoke 
she  turned  towards  him  with  a  look  of  quiet  decision. 
"  We  must  part  now,"  she  said,  "  and  it  is  fully  understood 
between  us,  whether  from  your  point  of  view  or  mine, 
that  it  is  wise  we  should,  and  that  we  are  not  to  meet 
again." 

"  Not  ever  ?" 

"  Never,  when  it  can  be  avoided  by  either  of  us." 

"  And  when  it  cannot  ?" 

"  If  such  an  occasion  should  arise,  we  must  meet  like 
any  common  acquaintances,  of  course." 

"  And  there  your  interest  in  what  concerns  me  ends  ?" 
His  tone  was  one  of  intense  bitterness. 

She  did  not  answer  for  some  moments.  Then  she 
said,  "  I  should  be  glad  to  know  something  of  your  life, 
but  that  I  think  it  must  not  be." 

"  Why  must  it  not  ?" 

"  It  cannot  be,  consistently  with  the  life  I  wish  to  live." 

"  Ah  !  You  did  not  explain  to  me  before  what  your 
point  of  view  was.  I  see :  it  is  that  of  conventionality." 

"  You  may  call  it  so.  I  certainly  choose  to  live  alone, 
and  do  not  choose  to  receive  any  visits.  You  may  con- 
sider me  a  sacrifice  to  conventionality,  if  you  please,  or 


70  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

join  with  the  majority  of  my  world,  which  cries  out  upon 
me  for  being  unconventional." 

"  I  have  not  been  especially  honored,  then,  in  being 
denied  your  door?"  he  demanded. 

"  Except  in  having  been  denied  more  often  than  many 
people,"  she  responded. 

.  "  Which  distinction  I  have  made  for  myself.  Is  that 
It?"  he  asked,  glancing  at  her  half  tenderly,  half  humor- 
ously, yet  speaking  sadly. 

She  answered  with  a  smile,  but  did  not  meet  his  eyes 
or  speak. 

"  Most  people  are  more  ready  to  believe  that  you  do 
not  wish  to  see  them  than  I  have  appeared  to  be  ?"  he 
continued  to  question,  still  in  a  mocking  tone,  although 
his  voice  shook  in  spite  of  his  effort  to  control  it,  and 
something  in  the  uncertain  sound,  which  her  quick  ear 
caught,  served  to  make  her  grave  again. 

She  bowed  her  head  in  silence. 

He  looked  at  her  earnestly  for  a  moment,  raised  his 
hat,  and  was  gone. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

Miss  ARKWRIGHT  pleaded  headache  the  next  morning 
when  old  Marjory  came  to  open  her  blinds.  It  was  so 
unusual  a  complaint  from  her  mistress  that  the  old  ser- 
vant looked  at  her  in  dismay,  but  as  no  explanation  was 
offered  and  no  encouragement  yielded  to  her  suggestions 
of  remedies,  she  shook  her  head  solemnly  and  left  her 
to  herself,  which  was  all  that  Cynthia  wanted.  She  rose 
from  bed,  indeed,  and  made  a  hasty  toilet  as  soon  as 
Marjory  went  away,  but  she  remained  in  her  chamber. 

She  let  it  be  understood  that  she  did  not  wish  to  be 
disturbed  all  day,  and,  even  when  her  little  sewing-class 
came  in  the  afternoon,  bade  Marjory  give  them  their 
work  and  say  that  one  of  them  might  read  to  the  others 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  Jl 

out  of  the  story-book  with  which  she  usually  beguiled 
the  hour. 

Richard  Ledyard,  happening  to  pass  the  cottage  at  a 
little  after  three  o'clock,  on  his  way  to  see  the  wife  of  a 
poor  farmer,  to  whose  bedside  he  had  been  summoned, 
was  attracted  by  the  sound  of  childish  laughter  coming 
through  the  open  window  at  the  side  near  which  his 
path  led,  and  peeped  in,  to  see  the  little  maidens  seated 
in  an  irregular  circle,  each  intent  upon  her  work,  until 
some  blunder  of  the  reader,  which  struck  her  auditors  as 
unusually  funny,  caused  a  sudden  explosion  that  ran  the 
whole  length  of  the  line,  followed  by  great  confusion, 
covering  of  mouths  with  backs  of  hands,  rubbing  of 
noses  with  sleeves  or  aprons,  and  shy  glances  at  the  re- 
treating form  of  Marjory,  who  was  in  the  act  of  slipping 
away  to  her  culinary  sanctum  in  a  manner  which  she 
fancied  unobserved.  Soon  Ledyard,  too,  was  gone,  and 
the  sewing  and  reading  went  on  uninterruptedly  for  an 
hour  longer. 

In  the  breezy  chamber  overhead  Cynthia  sat  quite 
still.  The  murmur  of  the  river  far  down  in  its  rocky 
bed  might  be  heard  through  the  open  windows,  and  the 
gentle  tapping  of  a  rose-vine  against  the  closed  blinds. 
She  could  see  the  sunlight  chasing  the  fleeting  shadows 
across  the  matting  on  her  floor,  and  the  low  sound  of 
the  children's  voices  came  faintly  from  below ;  but  all 
the  time  that  she  heard  and  saw  these  things  with  un- 
listening  ears  and  half-closed  eyes  her  mind  was  busy 
with  anxious  thought.  A  problem  had  suddenly  pre- 
sented itself  in  the  even  course  of  the  unchanging  life  to 
which  she  had  accustomed  herself  to  look  forward  as 
likely  to  last  for  years,  and  what  was  she  to  do  ? 

To  be  sure,  her  present  position  was  not  so  completely 
unexpected  as  if  it  had  never  been  conceived  of  as  pos- 
sible. When  the  rumor  first  reached  her  that  Millard 
Henderson,  as  his  uncle's  heir,  was  coming  to  Dun- 
daff,  she  had  indeed  been  surprised  at  the  mingled  fear 
and  agitation  which  she  felt  at  the  thought  of  seeing 
him  again;  but  long  and  fierce  had  been  her  struggle 


72  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

with  herself;  and  when  she  knew  that  he  was  actually 
coming  to  live  at  Dundaff,  with  his  wife  and  child,  she  had 
so  far  succeeded  in  forcing  the  common-sense  view  of  the 
matter  on  her  excited  fancy  as  to  be  convinced  that  if 
they  met  at  all  ;t  would  be  as  strangers,  or  acquaint- 
ances of  a  time  long  past 

She  was  the  more  assured  of  this  when  he  was  come 
to  Dundaff,  when  he  was  absolutely  settled  at  Fernwood, 
and  was  known  to  ride  down  to  the  factory  every  day 
and  hold  long  consultations  with  Mr.  Betterton  as  to 
certain  innovations  which  he  was  bent  upon  making  in 
the  old  system  of  things  at  the  mills.  In  truth,  so  satis- 
fied was  she  of  the  absurdity  of  the  fears  which  had 
haunted  her,  that  she  no  longer  looked  forward  to  the 
probability  of  any  special  embarrassment  as  likely  to 
result  from  a  chance  encounter.  She  even  conceived 
the  idea  that  she  would  like  to  see  him  again,  but  not 
where  she  would  be  seen  by  him.  She  only  wished  to 
see  him,  indeed,  in  such  a  way  as  to  be  sure  of  not  being 
seen  in  her  turn ;  and  having  heard  that  Henderson  was 
much  interested  in  the  coming  of  the  new  rector  to  St 
Andrew's,  it  occurred  to  her  that  by  mingling  with  the 
crowd  that  was  hastening  to  church  to  hear  Mr.  Led- 
yard  deliver  his  first  sermon,  she  would  have  the  oppor- 
tunity she  wished. 

She  did  not  attempt  to  cheat  herself  into  the  belief 
that  she  shared  the  curiosity  of  the  villagers  with  regard 
to  Mr.  Ledyard.  She  was  honest  enough  to  own  her 
weakness  before  she  yielded  to  it,  nor  had  she  repented. 
As  she  sat  in  church  that  Sunday  she  looked  long  and 
attentively  at  Millard  Henderson  from  her  distant  corner, 
noting  every  alteration  which  time  had  wrought,  with  a 
woman's  quick  eye  for  change,  in  one  she  had  loved, 
without  feeling  that  she  was  wronging  any  one,  or  ex- 
periencing any  diminution  of  self-respect.  In  addition 
to  this,  she  was  unexpectedly  pleased  by  the  simplicity 
and  earnestness  of  Mr.  Ledyard's  manner,  and  was  in- 
terested, in  spite  of  her  prejudices,  by  many  of  the  views 
he  held.  Indeed,  so  sincerely  did  she  like  him  as  a 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  73 

man,  that  she  felt  great  pity  for  him  as  a  believer  whose 
belief,  as  she  imagined,  was  doomed  to  disaster. 

Right  deftly  had  she  extricated  herself  from  the  rest 
of  the  congregation  when  church  was  over,  fancjnng  that 
she  had  succeeded  entirely  in  eluding  observation,  and 
was  rejoicing  that  she  had  not  been  seen  either  there,  or 
on  her  way  thence,  and  was  once  more  safely  in  her 
sheltered  home,  when  the  chance  of  an  idle  whim,  which 
led  the  unconscious  Henderson  to  invade  her  solitude, 
brought  them  suddenly  face  to  face.  After  the  electric 
flash  of  recognition  which  passed  between  them  in  that 
instant,  she  fully  realized  that  there  would  be  pain  for  both 
in  a  second  meeting,  and  she  had  taken  the  most  strenuous 
means  in  her  power  to  guard  against  it,  but,  in  spite  of 
every  precaution  on  her  part,  it  had  come,  and  now  what 
was  she  to  do  ? 

This  was  the  question  which  kept  recurring  to  her 
puzzled  brain.  To  be  sure,  Millard  Henderson  had 
seemed  to  acquiesce  in  her  decision  that  they  should 
avoid  one  another  in  future,  but  his  way  of  doing  so, 
and  some  things  which  he  had  said,  showed  only  too 
plainly  that  he  did  not  think  such  avoidance  would  be 
possible,  if  they  both  continued  to  live  in  so  small  a 
place.  Therefore,  something  must  be  done !  She  dis- 
tinctly saw  that  she  was  called  upon  to  take  some  de- 
cided step,  and  at  last  she  formed  a  resolve,  although  it 
cost  her  dear. 

She  could  not  have  believed  that  her  quiet  life,  her 
country  walks,  her  earnest  work  among  the  poor,  would 
have  come  to  be  so  a  part  of  her  own  individuality,  that 
to  leave  Dundaff  seemed  almost  painful  in  anticipa- 
tion, yet  so  it  was,  and  thus  had  she  resolved.  On  the 
writing-desk  near  which  she  sat  lay  a  letter  addressed 
to  Mrs.  Pelham,  which  she  had  begun  the  night  before. 
The  chords  of  old  association  had  been  set  vibrating  by 
her  interview  with  Henderson,  and  the  reason  for  her 
long  silence  having  also  been  removed,  she  had  felt  a 
keen  desire  to  confess  all  to  her  friend.  It  was  true  that 
even  now  she  could  not  explain  why  she  had  said 
D  7 


74  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

nothing  in  all  these  seven  years,  during  which  Mrs. 
Pel  ham,  as  well  as  Cynthia,  had  passed  through  such 
deep  affliction,  but  she  spoke  quite  frankly  of  the  events 
which  had  led  to  her  leaving  the  convent,  and  of  the 
secluded  life  which  she  had  since  preferred  to  live,  and, 
in  pursuance  of  her  resolution,  added  that  she  thought 
she  would  be  "  better"  for  a  change  of  scene.  She  had 
a  little  money,  she  stated;  she  could  raise  more  by 
renting  the  house,  which  had  belonged  to  her  aunt,  for 
Dundaff  was  growing,  and  houses  were  in  demand.  She 
thought  she  would  like  to  travel.  Would  Mrs.  Pelham  be 
willing  that  her  old  friend  Cynthia  should  join  her  abroad  ? 

When  the  letter  was  finished  she  read  it  over  carefully, 
and  was  about  to  seal  it  and  send  it  to  the  post,  when  she 
remembered  that  she  had  not  asked  Henderson  his 
aunt's  address.  Here  was  a  new  dilemma  with  which, 
with  her  aching  head,  she  did  not  feel  equal  to  cope. 
She  rang  for  a  bit  of  toast  and  a  strong  cup  of  tea,  de- 
termining to  lay  the  letter  aside  and  see  what  fresh  air 
would  do  for  her  overwrought  nerves. 

Thus  it  happened  that,  returning  from  his  errand  of 
mercy,  Richard  Ledyard  had  the  good  fortune  to  see 
Miss  Ark wright  sallying  forth  as  though  bent  on  a 
ramble  through  the  woods,  and  was  not  long  in  gaining 
her  side  and  asking  if  he  might  accompany  her.  The 
request  was  granted  in  the  same  easy,  natural  way  in 
which  it  was  made.  They  crossed  the  high-road  and 
continued  along  the  brow  of  the  hill,  which  overlooked 
the  river,  between  groups  of  tall  chestnut-trees,  to  where 
their  path  took  a  sudden  bend  to  the  right,  plunging 
downwards  amid  a  tangled  mass  of  undergrowth,  to  a 
narrow  steep  ravine,  at  the  bottom  of  which  a  slender 
stream  stole  swiftly  towards  the  river,  catching  here  and 
there  the  light  of  the  sinking  sun  between  the  shadows 
of  the  leaves.  They  had  both  been  very  silent  thus  far, 
and  Ledyard  had  unconsciously  taken  the  lead,  but  sud- 
denly noticed  that  in  ascending  the  opposite  side  of  the 
ravine  their  path  grew  steeper  and  steeper,  so  that  he 
began  to  fear  its  becoming  too  rough  for  his  companion. 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  75 

"  I  did  not  intend  to  give  you  all  this  climbing,"  he 
said,  apologetically,  but,  glancing  back,  perceived  that  she 
was  close  upon  his  heels,  with  light,  firm  step,  and  head 
erect  Indeed,  the  unusual  pallor  of  her  cheeks,  which 
he  had  noted  when  they  first  met,  had  given  way  to  a 
faint  color,  and  there  was  a  keen  light  in  her  dark  gray 
eyes,  which  showed  that  the  physical  sense  of  over- 
coming difficulties  was  agreeable  to  her. 

"  I  really  adopted  this  way  in  total  ignorance  of 
whither  it  might  lead,"  he  continued. 

"  I  knew,"  she  answered,  and  it  was  evident  that  the  way 
was  familiar  to  her,  although  she  accepted  his  offered 
hand,  as  it  began  to  be  obstructed,  here  and  there,  with 
moss-grown  boulders. 

"  We  might  have  chosen  an  easier  path,  certainly," 
said  Richard,  laughing. 

"  We  might,  but  there  is  none  more  beautiful,"  she 
answered,  gravely.  "  Do  you  know  where  we  are 
going?" 

"  I  have  not  the  least  idea." 

"  Wait !  I  will  show  you."  She  passed  him  as  she 
spoke,  and,  parting  the  boughs  of  overhanging  birch  and 
chestnut,  which  interlaced  before  them,  disclosed  the 
summit  of  a  huge  rock,  on  which  the  next  moment  she 
was  standing. 

Ledyard  swung  himself  lightly  up  by  the  trunk  of  a 
slender  cedar-tree,  of  which  two  or  three  grew  near,  their 
clinging  roots  issuing  from  between  the  crevices  of  the 
stone,  and  stood  beside  her.  He  noticed  that  her  right 
hand  was  resting  on  a  bough  of  one  of  these  trees,  and 
with  her  left  hand  she  was  shading  her  eyes  from  the 
sunlight.  He  was  struck  with  her  commanding  yet 
graceful  attitude,  and  the  new  interest  lent  to  her  face 
by  a  mild  enthusiasm  of  expression.  Somehow  he  had 
never  before  realized  her  physical  beauty,  he  had  been 
so  much  more  attracted  by  her  other  characteristics  ;  and 
even  now  it  was  not  so  much  the  clear-cut  features,  as 
their  wonderful  mobility  and  capacity  for  reflecting  every 
variety  of  thought  or  emotion,  which  excited  his  admi- 


76  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

ration.  His  mind  reverted  to  the  strange  meeting  of 
which  he  had  been  a  witness  the  night  before,  and  he 
wished  that  he  knew  the  meaning  of  her  agitation. 
What  right  had  any  man  to  speak  to  her  as  that  one 
had  done  ?  Who  was  this  Lieutenant  Henderson  ? 
Ledyard  was  determined  to  find  out.  He  hated  mys- 
tery. 

So  absorbed  was  he  in  these  thoughts  and  in  watching 
her,  that  he  forgot  to  answer  what  she  said;  then  he 
realized  that  she  was  calling  on  him  to  admire  the  view, 
and,  turning,  could  not  withhold  an  exclamation  of  de- 
light at  the  savage  grandeur  of  the  spot. 

The  whole  top  of  the  hill  on  which  they  stood  was 
formed  of  a  mass  of  rock  which  descended  in  a  solid  wall 
on  the  left  of  them  to  the  level  of  the  river-bed,  some 
fifty  feet  below,  while  in  front  and  on  their  right  it  pro- 
jected out  beyond  the  shadow  of  the  woods,  until  it 
seemed  to  overhang  and  threaten  the  wild-rushing  river 
far  beneath. 

"This  is  called  the  Tarpeian  Rock,"  said  Cynthia. 
"  Is  it  not  well  named  ?" 

"  Perfectly.  One  would  shiver  to  think  of  the  fate  of 
victims  cast  down  from  it !" 

They  made  their  way  to  a  natural  seat  formed  by  a 
ledge,  from  which  they  could  see  the  rapid  Osceola  and 
hear  the  rush  and  roar  still  more  distinctly,  as  it  dashed 
along  between  its  rugged  banks.  They  could  also  follow 
the  course  of  the  winding  road  on  its  farther  shore,  and 
take  in  beyond  this  an  endless  succession  of  wooded 
heights,  which  rose  one  above  another  against  a  dark- 
ening sky. 

"  Those  clouds  look  threatening,"  said  Ledyard.  "  Is 
it  possible  that  we  are  to  have  a  storm  ?" 

"I  think  so,"  she  answered,  following  the  direction  in 
which  he  was  looking,  with  a  dreamy  expression.  "  I 
hope  so." 

"  What !" 

"  Do  you  not  love  a  summer  storm  in  the  woods  ?" 
she  asked,  turning  suddenly  towards  him.  "  When  it 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  fj 

thunders  among  those  hills,  one  can  almost  feel  this  rock 
shake  with  the  reverberation,  and  the  rain  sounds  so  re- 
freshing as  it  falls  among  the  leaves." 

"  I  see  you  know  these  sounds." 

"  Ah,  yes ;  I  used  often  to  come  here,  as  a  child." 

"  But  most  women  are  afraid  of  lightning." 

"  Are  they  ?" 

"  Perhaps  I  am  wrong  ;  I  fancied  that  they  were." 

"  No  doubt  there  are  men,  and  women  too,  who  have 
a  natural  dislike  to  a  storm,  just  as  they  shrink  from  an 
exciting  scene  of  any  kind." 

"  I  fancy  it  is  more  than  that,"  he  answered,  gently. 
"  Besides  the  moral  dread,  there  is  a  physical  shrinking 
from  an  air  highly  charged  with  electricity,  which  is  con- 
stitutional. Do  not  imagine  that  I  share  it,"  he  added, 
laughing,  for  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  detected  a  faint 
shade  of  contempt  in  her  manner. 

"  I  quite  understand,"  she  answered,  quickly.  "  You 
mean  that  some  persons  hate  it,  just  as  others  have 
an  inborn  love  of  it?  I  have  often  wondered,"  she 
continued,  presently,  "what  it  is  in  a  great  upheaval 
of  nature,  such  as  that,  which  attracts  one's  sym- 
pathy." 

"  It  seems  like  some  strong  thing  struggling  for  free- 
dom, does  it  not  ?"  asked  Ledyard. 

"  Yes ;  compared  to  such  a  day  as  this  has  been,  for 
instance,  it  is  as  intense  emotion  beside  the  acquired 
contentment  which  habit  may  bring  to  a  dull  life." 

"  You  are  right,"  he  replied ;  "  yet  in  that  light 
prudence  would  say  it  is  hardly  to  be  desired.  Content- 
ment is  a  great  blessing  to  all  those  to  whom  it  is  per- 
manently possible." 

"  It  should  be  possible  to  every  one,"  she  said,  seri- 
ously, speaking  with  a  certain  remoteness  of  tone  intended 
to  convey  the  impression  that  her  remarks  were  only  the 
result  of  a  general  reflection,  but  he  detected  a  quick- 
drawn  sigh  which  belied  the  assertion. 

"  Is  it  possible  to  every  one  ?"  he  asked,  gently.  "  I 
fear  it  is  not." 


78  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

She  had  turned  her  head  away,  but  now  looked  round 
again  at  him  with  an  expression  which  was  half  amuse- 
ment, half  defiance. 

"  Is  it  not  to  you  ?"  she  inquired. 

"  Not  always.     And  to  you  ?" 

"  Why  do  you  fancy  that  I  am  thinking  of  myself?" 
she  asked,  impatiently. 

"  Because  I  should  think  that  the  daily  round  of  such 
duties  as  you  make  for  yourself  in  this  country  village, 
well  ordered  though  they  be,  could  not  yield  even  an 
approximate  contentment,  without  some  higher  hope." 

"  Do  not  let  us  talk  of  me,"  she  answered,  with  a  faint 
quiver  in  her  voice,  which  should  have  been  a  warning. 
"  Such  a  life  as  mine  has  great  alleviations,"  she  contin- 
ued in  a  lighter  tone,  "  compared  to  many  others.  Take 
that  of  those  poor  workers  in  the  factory  yonder,  for  in- 
stance, who  are  just  breathing  free  air  for  the  first  time 
for  ten  hours,  and  must  be  at  their  posts  by  seven  o'clock 
to-morrow  morning !"  She  pointed  down  the  river  as 
she  spoke,  to  where  the  factory  building  stood,  of  which 
the  great  bell  was  at  that  moment  sounding  for  work 
to  cease. 

"  I  think  there  may  be  a  spark  of  light  in  each  of  those 
sad  hearts,"  he  answered,  "  which  there  is  not  in  yours." 
He  spoke  thoughtfully,  looking  away  from  her.  His 
best  excuse  was  that  he  knew  not  what  he  did.  Nor 
was  he  conscious  of  the  spasm  of  pain  which  swept  over 
her  face ;  but  the  next  moment  she  turned  upon  him  a 
glance,  which  so  plainly  challenged  his  right  to  invade 
her  chosen  reserve,  that  he  keenly  regretted  his  words. 
He  was  startled  by  the  indignant  outlook  of  the  soul 
whose  privacy  he  had  outraged. 

[  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  earnestly.  "  I  would 
not  have  offended  you  for  worlds.  I  ought  not  to  have 
spoken  so  frankly.  I  was  thinking  aloud." 

"  Oh,  I  am  not  at  all  offended,"  she  returned,  quietly ; 
"  only  a  little  surprised  at  your  seeming  to  think  that 
you  know  what  lights  I  may  or  may  not  have.  Shall 
we  not  be  going  back  now  ?" 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  79 

Something  in  her  manner,  more  than  in  her  words, 
aroused  his  anger.  He  was  not  willing  to  be  thus 
silenced  and  humiliated  at  once.  It  might  have  been  a 
fatal  error  to  let  her  see  what  he  knew.  He  was  sorry 
for  it,  and  had  said  so  like  a  man,  yet  it  was  her  own 
fault  if  he  understood  more  of  her  opinions  than  she 
wished. 

"  I  do  not  think  you  are  aware  of  how  plainly  you 
express  your  doubts  and  convictions  in  your  face,  Miss 
Arkwright,  or  you  would  not  be  surprised  at  my  fancy- 
ing that  I  knew  something  about  them,"  he  said. 

She  paused  in  the  act  of  rising,  with  an  air  of  puzzled 
incredulity.  "  I  should  hardly  have  supposed  that  I  did 
do  that,  certainly,"  she  said,  with  dignity." 

"  It  may  not  be  so  when  you  try  to  hide  them,"  he 
rejoined ;  "  but  only  at  such  times  as  you  do  not  care." 

"  As  when,  for  instance  ?" 

"  I  am  thinking  of  the  first  time  I  ever  saw  you." 

"  Is  not  this  only  the  second  or  third  ?" 

"  Hardly.  I  saw  you  often  before  you  came  to  the  par- 
sonage after  Danforth  that  evening ;  but  the  first  time  was 
at  church,  on  the  first  Sunday  I  preached  at  St.  An- 
drew's." 

Cynthia  started.  She  had  not  been  as  unobserved, 
then,  as  she  imagined.  He  perceived  that  she  colored 
slightly.  "  I  am  surprised  that  you  should  have  noticed 
me,"  she  said,  using  the  first  weapon  which  came  to 
hand  in  self-defence. 

"  It  was  chiefly  on  account  of  your  expression  that  I 
did  so,"  he  replied,  more  gently. 

"  But  what  was  there  in  that  to  attract  your  attention  ?" 
she  asked,  almost  with  awe.  Surely  her  sin  was  finding 
her  out  in  a  most  unexpected  way. 

"  There  was  the  plainest  assurance  that  you  differed 
from  me  in  everything  that  I  was  saying." 

She  drew  a  sigh  of  relief.  "  Was  that  all  ?"  she  asked, 
and  in  spite  of  herself  a  smile  dawned  on  her  face,  but 
Ledyard  turned  towards  her  very  gravely.  His  eyes 
looked  stern  and  determined. 


80  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

"  To  me,  my  opinions  and  belief  are  not  matters  of 
amusement,  Miss  Arkwright,"  he  said,  with  spirit. 

He  thought  he  knew  her  capacity  for  expression  by 
this  time,  but  he  was  surprised  at  the  sudden  sweetness 
of  the  lines  about  her  mouth,  and  then  at  its  pathetic 
melancholy. 

"  Ah !  no,"  she  said,  in  her  deeply  vibrating  voice. 
"  That  was  the  saddest  thing  to  me,  to  see  how  warmly 
you  believed,  how  intensely  you  were  in  earnest." 

"  And  why  sad  ?"  he  asked,  with  a  touch  of  irritation 
at  the  answer  which  he  thought  he  foresaw,  for  her  com- 
passionate tone  recalled  the  pitying  glance  with  which 
she  had  left  the  church  that  Sunday. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  now,"  she  said,  quite  calmly. 

"  Why  not  ?" 

"  Because  you  would  not  understand." 

"You  think  me  not  only  mistaken,  but  obtuse?" 

"  I  think  nothing  unkind  of  one  whose  heart  is  in  his 
work,  as  yours  is.  But  it  is  growing  late.  We  must  be 
going  home.  You  see  my  thunder-storm  has  passed." 

"  Will  you  tell  me  some  other  time  ?"  persisted  Led- 
yard. 

"  Perhaps,  if  you  will  drop  the  subject  now." 

There  was  no  use  in  being  provoked.  She  was  a 
woman,  after  all,  and,  if  unlike  the  rest  of  her  sex  in 
some  respects,  would  have  her  way. 

Accordingly,  their  theme  was  changed.  Cynthia 
pointed  out  to  him  a  broad  and  comparatively  easy  path 
on  the  other  side  of  the  rock,  which  led  thence  to  the 
village ;  but  they  went  back  by  the  path  they  had  come, 
and  on  the  way  home  he  asked  her  many  practical  ques- 
tions as  to  what  she  had  discovered  to  be  the  best  mode 
of  approaching  and  helping  certain  of  the  more  thrift- 
less, suffering,  and  hopelessly  ignorant  of  the  factory 
people,  hardly  less  in  need  of  spiritual  than  of  bodily 
comfort.  On  this  subject  he  found  her  as  earnest  and 
as  anxious  as  he  could  wish,  and  they  certainly  parted 
very  good  friends. 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  8 1 


CHAPTER    X. 

OVER  the  great  events  of  life,  does  fortune  rule  ?  The 
incidents  which  lead  to  them  are  seldom  ordered  by  the 
individual  whose  fate  they  chiefly  mould ;  but  is  he  not 
a  free  agent,  because  his  liberty  is  restricted  to  the  way 
he  meets  his  fate  ?  Granted  that  we  are  less  free  than 
we  may  appear  to  ourselves, — nay,  more,  that  a  great  part 
of  our  sense  of  freedom  consists  in  our  ignorance  of 
what  lies  before  us,  is  this  not  rather  because  we  mistake 
the  manner  of  our  freedom,  than  that  the  sense  is  all 
illusive  ? 

Shall  it  be  believed  that  one  has  no  power  to  influ- 
ence one's  own  future  and  that  of  others,  because  one's 
power  is  more  limited,  more  qualified,  than  one  sup- 
poses ?  Professor  Hardy's  "  Wind  of  Destiny"  may  blow 
from  east  to  west,  and  Count  Tolstoi  may  talk  scorn- 
fully of  the  popular  fallacy  that  one  man  can  affect  an 
age ;  but  granting  to  Professor  Hardy  that  circumstances 
great  and  small,  are  ordered  by  some  force,  or  the  effect 
of  some  combination  of  forces  outside  ourselves ;  grant- 
ing to  Count  Tolstoi  that  it  is  the  ripeness  of  the  time 
only  which  permits  one  man's  use  of  it  to  become  of 
consequence  to  nations,  yet  there  is  also  only  one  man 
in  a  generation  who  may  have  the  capacity  to  use  it,  and 
there  seems  grave  reason  to  doubt  if  there  be  any  fatality 
like  that  of  character. 

There  is,  nevertheless,  an  attraction  to  the  circum- 
scribed imagination  of  the  realist,  as  to  that  of  the  classic 
worshipper  of  fate,  in  the  idea  that  the  grand  march  of 
human  experience  is  directed  by  a  blind  force,  gathering 
all  guidance  from  good  or  evil  chance,  all  motive  from 
the  original  impetus  of  its  forward  movement,  just  as 
there  is  a  satisfaction  to  the  temper  of  the  religious  en- 
thusiast, alike  of  the  time  of  Tolstoi  or  of  St.  Augustine 
in  the  idea  of  an  all-seeing,  all-directing  Deity,  for  whose 


82  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

glory  we  exist,  in  whose  hands  we  are  as  instruments  to 
accomplish  his  purposes,  or  by  whom  our  destiny  is  pre- 
determined ;  but  whether  or  no  chance  supersede  Provi- 
dence in  popular  theory,  or  be  in  its  turn  subjugated  by 
means  of  the  definite  laws  which  are  believed  to  govern 
chances  in  the  aggregate,  the  circumstances  thus  ac- 
counted for,  which  have  a  given  value  for  the  world  at 
large,  are  of  a  most  varied  inner  significance,  as  causes 
of  happiness,  or  misery,  to  the  persons  whose  lives  they 
touch. 

Thus,  however  small  and  unimportant  the  life  of  one 
human  being  may  be,  compared  to  the  civilization  of 
nations,  it  yet  has  a  realm  to  itself,  a  majesty  of  its  own, 
by  right  of  which  it  settles  the  value  of  every  incident 
and  every  theory — above  all,  of  every  thought-creating 
act — which  enters  its  own  dominion. 

The  modern  scientific  purist,  only  distinguishing  this 
power  as  a  disturbing  influence  to  his  mathematical  con- 
clusions, dubs  it  the  "  personal  equation."  Mr.  Herbert 
Spencer,  when  the  clearness  of  his  rational  vision  is 
dimmed  by  the  sudden  appearance  of  this  cloud-like 
barrier  to  exact  thought,  calls  it  the  "  personal  bias," 
having  vainly  striven  to  classify  it  as  the  effect  of  climate 
and  food.  Both  feel  a  regret  and  contempt  for  its  ex- 
istence, which  neither,  however,  is  able  to  deny  or  dis- 
regard, and  the  chief  reason  for  the  feeling  is  due  to 
recognition  of  its  varied  extent,  its  unknown  limits,  its 
unforeseen  influence, — in  a  word,  of  its  immeasurability 
Perhaps  those  of  us,  on  the  other  hand,  who  look  at  life 
from  the  opposite  side,  gleaning  such  knowledge  as  we 
may  gather  through  sympathetic  observation,  or  from 
insight  born  of  the  imagination,  are  too  little  interested 
in  causes,  except  as  they  relate  to  human  motives,  and 
are  inclined  to  too  subjective  a  view  of  events,  being 
tempted  to  consider  them  great,  or  small,  in  proportion 
to  their  bearing  on  the  characters  which  they  affect. 

When  Cynthia  Arkwright,  in  simple  morning  gown 
and  dark  straw  hat,  approached  the  road  to  the  village, 
on  the  morning  after  the  last  conversation  "recorded,  she 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  83 

was  only  bent  on  one  idea,  the  suggestion  of  which  had 
come  to  her  through  the  wakeful  hours  of  the  previous 
night.  This  was  a  hope  which  she  had  conceived  of 
obtaining  the  address  of  her  friend  Mrs.  Pelham  at  the 
post-office,  where  it  occurred  to  her  that  letters  of  busi- 
ness, as  well  as  friendly  epistles,  must  frequently  be  sent 
for  the  former  mistress  of  Fernwood. 

It  had  been  a  great  relief  to  Cynthia  when  she  thought 
of  this  possible  solution  to  her  difficulty,  for  as  we  have 
seen  she  dreaded  above  all  things  the  alternative  of  again 
meeting  Henderson,  or  putting  herself  into  communi- 
cation with  him,  in  order  to  learn  how  to  direct  to  his 
aunt. 

Following  the  woodland  path  which  led  from  the  steep 
bank  on  which  her  house  was  built  to  the  cart-road,  and 
emerging  suddenly  from  behind  the  trees  and  shrubs 
which  sheltered  this  track  from  the  main  road  to  the  vil- 
lage, accompanied  by  her  faithful  Scotch  retriever,  she 
drew  back  just  in  time  to  avoid  being  thrown  down  and 
run  over  by  a  pair  of  spirited  Canadian  ponies,  and  look- 
ing up  quickly  perceived  that  they  were  driven  by  a 
young  and  pretty  woman,  whom  she  might  not  instantly 
have  recognized  as  Mrs.  Henderson,  had  not  her  husband 
been  seated  in  the  low  phaeton  beside  her. 

Cynthia  drew  back  among  the  sheltering  branches  of 
some  lilac  bushes  to  let  the  carriage  pass,  with  an  inward 
apology  to  herself  for  having  been  so  rash  as  to  provoke 
the  encounter,  and  no  realizing  belief  that  she  was  ful- 
filling one  of  the  requirements  of  destiny  as  she  stood 
there  with  Neptune  beside  her;  yet  it  so  chanced  that 
this  was  but  the  second  time  these  two  women  had  ever 
beheld  one  another,  while  Fate  had  long  been  busy  in 
tangling  their  lives  together,  and  after-history  was  to 
render  the  day  memorable  to  each. 

Henderson's  quick  eye  was  not  prevented  by  her  shel- 
tered position  from  recognizing  Cynthia,  aided  as  it  was 
by  his  distinct  knowledge  of  the  vicinity  of  her  cottage; 
but  in  the  moment  that  he  was  about  to  speak  to  her 
his  attention  was  claimed  by  an  exclamation  from  his 


84  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

wife,  and  he  turned  to  see  that  she  was  having  difficulty 
in  managing  the  horses. 

Mrs.  Henderson,  who  had  reined  in  the  ponies  with 
a  little  cry  of  terror,  gave  a  hurried  look  at  the  person 
who  had  caused  the  interruption,  and  then  submitted  to 
the  superior  strength  of  her  husband,  who  quietly  took  the 
reins  from  her  hands  and  drove  the  rest  of  the  way  him- 
self. She  did  not  in  this  hasty  glance  detect  anything 
familiar,  or  especially  noteworthy,  about  Miss  Arkwright. 
She  took  her  for  one  of  the  "  natives,"  under  which  ge- 
neric term  she  was  in  the  habit  of  classifying  the  in- 
habitants of  the  town  of  Dundaff,  and  remarked  to 
Lieutenant  Henderson,  as  they  drove  towards  the  rail- 
road station,  whither  they  were  hurrying  in  order  that 
he  might  catch  the  morning  train  for  town,  that "  the 
villagers"  seemed  quite  unaccustomed  to  fast  horses. 
Henderson  did  not  answer.  He  may  have  been  intent 
on  making  his  train,  or  had  enough  to  do,  perhaps,  to 
manage  the  horses.  They  certainly  made  good  speed, 
for  when  arrived  at  the  station  they  found  themselves 
too  early. 

"  So  much  the  better,"  he  said ;  "  it  will  give  me  a 
moment  to  get  my  letters." 

Thus,  while  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Henderson  were  standing 
together  near  the  door  of  the  building  which  served  both 
for  station  and  post-office,  who  should  appear  but  the 
same  tall,  straight  figure,  followed  by  the  same  tall  Scotch 
retriever,  whom  they  had  encountered  a  few  moments 
before!  Mrs.  Henderson  stood  aside,  this  time,  with  a 
slight  air  of  condescension.  Her  husband  was  reading  a 
letter,  and  did  not  look  up ;  but  at  the  first  sound  of  Cyn- 
thia's voice,  asking  for  an  address,  although  the  tone  was 
a  low  one,  he  started,  and  glanced  in  the  direction 
whence  it  came,  when,  to  the  surprise  of  his  lady,  he 
walked  straight  into  the  station,  and  held  out  his  hand 
towards  the  speaker,  lifting  his  hat,  as  he  did  so,  with 
grave  respect.  Mrs.  Henderson  did  not  hear  the  short 
conversation  which  followed.  After  the  first  faint  stirring 
of  curiosity  caused  by  this  unexpected  recognition,  she 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  85 

turned  away  indifferently  towards  the  carriage,  whither 
her  husband  presently  followed  her  with  rather  an  odd 
expression. 

"  The  train  is  behind  time,"  he  said,  as  he  helped  her 
into  her  seat.  "  Do  you  know  who  that  was  ?" 

"  No.     I  was  going  to  ask  you." 

"  It  was  Miss  Arkwright." 

"  What !     Not  the  Miss  Arkwright  to  whom " 

"  Yes.  It  was  Cynthia  Arkwright.  It  seems  that  she 
is  living  here." 

"  I  thought  she  had  become  a  nun." 

"  She  had,  but  she  has  left  the  convent.  I  do  not  know 
all  her  reasons,  but  they  must  have  been  good  ones." 

"  Indeed  !"  with  just  a  perceptible  stiffness  of  tone.  "  I 
fancied  I  remembered  her  as  quite  a  different-looking 
person." 

"  Oh,  she  has  changed,  of  course,"  said  Lieutenant 
Henderson,  reddening  a  little,  and  avoiding  his  wife's 
eyes.  "  I  was  never  more  surprised  than  to  find  her 
here,"  he  continued,  after  a  short  pause.  "  I  thought  her 
still  in  Florida." 

Mrs.  Henderson  made  no  direct  answer.  She  would 
have  liked  it  to  be  believed  that  she  took  no  interest  in 
the  subject,  but  was  in  reality  too  deeply  interested  and 
too  much  vexed  to  be  able  calmly  to  discuss  it.  She 
was  gifted  with  quick  instincts,  especially  for  all  that  re- 
garded her  husband,  but  was  very  wanting  in  the  power 
of  sympathy,  so  that  she  could  not  weigh  nor  fathom  with 
any  certainty  what  she  saw  in  others ;  she  was  only 
vaguely  disturbed  thereat,  as  an  animal  might  be  trou- 
bled by  the  state  of  the  atmosphere  before  a  storm,  and 
almost  always  felt  either  too  much  or  too  little  for  the 
occasion. 

Meanwhile,  the  train  did  not  come,  and  Henderson 
glanced  from  time  to  time  uneasily  at  his  watch,  while 
he  stood  beside  the  phaeton,  pursuing  the  thread  of  his 
own  reflections. 

"  I  should  like  you  to  call  on  Miss  Arkwright,  my  dear," 
he  said,  presently.  "  By  the  bye,  I  did  not  tell  you  of 


86  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

my  meeting  Danforth  the  other  day  in  the  village,"  he 
added,  briskly.  "  You  remember  George  Danforth, 
whom  I  used  to  know  in  Virginia  ?  But  no, — I  forgot : 
you  never  met  him.  Of  course ;  how  stupid  of  me  to 
have  forgotten  that  we  were  not  married  at  that  time !" 

"  So  much  happened  before  we  were  married,"  said 
Mrs.  Henderson,  in  a  deaf  voice. 

"  It  is  true.  A  good  deal  had  happened,"  replied  her 
husband.  He  did  not  intend  any  unkind  allusion,  but  hei 
face  grew  suddenly  crimson  and  then  white. 

"  I  do  not  remember  ever  hearing  you  speak  of  any 
one  named  Danforth,"  she  said,  by  way  of  saying  some- 
thing. 

"  No  ?"  he  answered,  absently.  "  Well,  Danforth  is  a 
very  good  fellow.  He  and  my  dear  friend  Neil  were  in 
the  same  regiment  during  the  war,  and  Neil  always  used 
to  say  that  it  was  Danforth  who  saved  his  right  arm,  to 
the  best  of  his  belief,  after  the  battle  of  Fredericksburg, 
when  any  other  surgeon  would  have  cut  it  off.  Neil,  as 
you  know,  was  an  artist,  so  it  was  almost  like  saving  his 
life.  What  would  I  not  give  if  he  were  alive  now!  Why, 
what  is  the  matter,  Posey  ?  has  anything  startled  you  ? 
Surely  not  what  I  said  about  Danforth  ?  I  only  wish  so 
true  a  friend  had  been  with  Neil  in  the  West,  when  pluck 
and  presence  of  mind  were  sorely  needed.  That  affair 
with  the  Indians  might  have  terminated  differently. 
Danforth  is  the  physician  here,  I  understand,  which  I 
consider  very  lucky.  The  new  clergyman,  too,  is  rather 
clever  in  his  way,  I  imagine ;  at  least  he  preaches  a  good 
sermon,  and  being  a  stranger  like  ourselves,  besides  that 
he  is  the  rector  of  Aunt  Pelham's  church,  it  behooves  us 
to  notice  him.  We  must  ask  them  both  to  dinner,  and 
you  might  ask  the  Bettertons  at  the  same  time,  or  some 
of  them.  I  think  Danforth  quite  admires  Miss  Flor- 
ence." 

"  Are  we  to  ask  Miss  Cynthia  Arkwright  to  dinner 
also  ?"  inquired  his  wife,  with  ill- concealed  displeasure 
at  having  her  social  duties  thus  laid  down,  apart  from  hef 
special  annoyance. 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  87 

"  Well,  that's  as  you  please,"  replied  Henderson,  coldly. 
"  It  would  be  a  graceful  thing  to  do,  but  I  doubt  whether 
the  invitation  would  be  accepted.  Ah  !  here  is  the  train 
at  last.  Good-by,  my  dear.  Take  good  care  of  Wilfred, 
and  drive  carefully,  for  the  ponies  are  fresh." 

With  a  wave  of  the  hand,  Millard  was  gone,  and  Mrs. 
Henderson  heard  the  whiz  of  the  train  which  was  bearing 
him  away.  As  she  turned  her  horses'  heads  homeward, 
she  felt  nervously  unstrung,  and  was  possessed  with  a 
presentiment  of  evil  which  seemed  quite  out  of  propor- 
tion to  circumstances.  Presently,  as  she  rounded  the 
corner  from  the  station  into  the  main  street  of  Dundaff, 
she  again  caught  sight  of  Miss  Arkwright's  figure,  just 
disappearing  a  long  distance  down  the  street,  but  still  no 
longer  mistakable  to  Mrs.  Henderson's  aroused  percep- 
tions. "  No  wonder,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  that  she  had 
failed  to  recognize  her  in  the  first  instance,  in  that  Puri- 
tanic garb,"  so  unlike  that  of  the  fashionably-dressed 
young  lady  whose  costly  fur  and  rich  attire  had  excited 
her  envy  in  a  by-gone  time.  Did  Miss  Arkwright  re- 
member her  too,  as  she  was  then,  a  shabby  little  actress  ? 
Tears  of  vexation  came  to  her  eyes  as  she  thought  of 
this  possibility,  and  raising  her  hand  to  wipe  them 
away  she  unconsciously  shook  the  reins.  The  ponies 
started.  She  felt  provoked,  drew  them  in,  and  struck 
them  angrily.  Then  suddenly  the  town  of  Dundaff 
began  whirling  by  her  in  a  mad  rush.  She  could  dis- 
tinguish nothing  but  here  and  there  a  frightened  face 
turned  towards  her  in  dismay,  as  her  horses  were  bearing 
her  through  the  main  street  at  break-neck  speed.  At 
the  foot  of  the  hill  on  which  Cynthia's  house  stood,  the 
road  to  Fernwood  took  a  sharp  turn  to  the  right. 
Mrs.  Henderson  conceived  the  idea  in  her  excited  brain 
that  if  she  could  guide  the  horses  successfully  round  this 
corner,  the  effort  of  mounting  the  hill  would  soon  reduce 
their  capability  of  running.  It  was  a  brave  thought, 
but  a  rash  one.  She  had  better  have  kept  to  the  broad 
turnpike  road,  which  went  on  for  miles  in  a  nearly 
straight  line,  and  let  them  tire  themselves  out.  So 


88  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

thought  a  person  who  was  looking  on  in  anxious  sus- 
pense, as  he  beheld  the  horses'  headlong  flight,  but  was 
himself  at  too  great  a  distance  to  avert  the  catastrophe 
which  he  foresaw. 

It  so  happened  that  Richard  Ledyard  was  on  the  crest 
of  the  hill  at  the  moment  that  Mrs.  Henderson  attempted 
to  turn  her  frightened  steeds.  How  provoked  he  was 
with  the  negro  groom  for  not  interfering  or  taking  the 
reins,  and  yet  the  poor  fellow  was  vainly  calling  to  her 
to  forbear !  She  drew  the  right  rein  with  all  her  force, 
stood  up  in  the  carriage,  and  struck  the  far  pony.  He 
reared  high  in  the  air  at  the  same  instant  that  his  com- 
panion bounded  to  the  right.  The  phaeton  was  over- 
turned in  less  time  than  it  takes  to  tell  it.  The  rearing 
horse  fell  upon  the  other  in  a  struggling  heap,  and  Mrs. 
Henderson  was  flung  to  some  distance  on  the  side  of 
the  road,  where  she  lay  as  one  dead.  Only  the  negro 
groom,  who  had  at  least  not  forsaken  his  post,  having 
held  himself  into  his  seat  all  the  time  in  mortal  fear, 
still  remained  in  the  broken  carriage,  beneath  which  he 
was  caught  fast  by  one  leg,  so  that  he  was  unable  to 
go  to  his  mistress's  aid.  Naturally,  Mr.  Ledyard  was 
the  first  to  reach  her  side.  He  lifted  her  drooping 
head,  and  was  loosening  the  strings  of  her  little  French 
bonnet,  with  a  pathetic  sense  of  its  want  of  harmony  with 
the  sad  fixity  of  the  white  face,  when  he  was  struck  with 
a  sudden  feeling  of  terror  at  its  resemblance  to  another 
face  which  he  had  known  well  many  years  before.  It 
could  be  only  a  resemblance,  but  how  strong  it  was ! 
The  shock  it  caused  him  was  almost  paralyzing,  and  he 
was  wondering  whither  to  turn  for  help,  when  Dr.  Dan- 
forth  most  fortunately  came  up.  He  placed  his  hand  on 
her  heart  for  a  moment,  then  felt  her  pulse,  and  nodded, 
as  though  to  himself. 

"There  is  still  life,"  he  said  to  Ledyard,  and  poured  a 
few  drops  from  a  vial  between  the  closed  teeth.  "  We 
must  get  her  into  a  warm  bed  at  once,"  he  continued. 
"  What  is  the  nearest  house  ?" 

"  Is  not  Miss  Arkwright's  house  the  nearest  ?"  asked 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  89 

Ledyard,  with  a  vibration  of  uncertainty  in  his  voice, 
owing  to  a  momentary  doubt  whether  a  house  in  which 
no  visitors  were  ever  received  would  be  available  for  their 
purpose. 

It  was  evident  that  Danforth  did  not  share  it.  "  Of 
course,"  he  responded  with  decision.  "  I  had  forgotten 
how  near  it  was.  Will  you  help  me  to  carry  her  there  ?" 

Ledyard  assented,  and  as  soon  as  they  had  freed  the 
groom  from  his  painful  and  perilous  position,  they  lifted 
the  lady  onto  the  long  cushion  which  had  been  used  on 
the  front  seat  of  the  phaeton,  and  carried  her  thus  between 
them. 

The  horses,  which  had  meanwhile  struggled  to  their 
feet,  seemed  very  slightly  hurt,  and  were  soon  captured 
by  the  darky. 


CHAPTER    XI. 

THUS  it  happened  that  Cynthia  Arkwright,  who  had 
taken  the  short  cut,  as  usual,  by  the  foot-path  which 
climbed  the  hill  just  opposite  her  cottage,  and  had  thus 
been  saved  the  sight  of  the  runaway  horses  or  the  shock  of 
the  accident,  had  just  put  aside  her  hat,  given  her  morn- 
ing orders  to  Marjory,  and  was  stepping  from  the  kitchen 
into  her  sunny  little  parlor,  when  she  heard  an  unwonted 
sound  of  tramping  on  the  gravel  walk  which  led  from  the 
gate  of  her  garden,  and,  looking  out  of  a  front  window, 
saw  Mr.  Ledyard  and  Dr.  Danforth  bearing  between  them 
the  senseless  form  of  Mrs.  Millard  Henderson. 

Perhaps  no  combination  of  circumstances  could  have 
appeared  more  strange.  Certainly  no  spectacle  could 
have  been  more  awful  to  her  than  the  sight  of  this  pale 
dishevelled  figure,  after  that  of  the  pretty,  gayly-dressed 
lady  she  had  met  that  morning,  so  seemingly  confident, 
so  self-poised  and  happily  indifferent,  one  would  have 
said,  to  fortune,  so  certain  of  the  world's  approbation.  It 
had  indeed  required  all  Cynthia's  philosophy,  for  the  first 

8* 


90  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

few  moments,  to  bear  with  equanimity  the  unconscious 
patronage  of  the  glance  of  her  former  rival,  who  did  not 
even  recognize  the  woman  whom  she  believed  herself  to 
have  superseded;  and  now  in  one  short  hour  how  was 
the  situation  changed  ! 

With  surprise  and  dismay  Cynthia  sprang  to  open  the 
door,  and  when  she  met  the  two  men  she  showed  her 
concern  even  more  in  her  manner  than  by  anything  she 
said.  The  strong,  tender,  womanly  sympathy  that  was  in 
her  could  not  be  doubted.  It  spoke  in  her  face,  as  in 
every  word  of  welcome. 

"  Have  you  a  couch  in  your  parlor,  Miss  Arkwright?" 
asked  Ledyard,  responding  to  her  manner  with  a  direct- 
ness of  speech  which  he  may  have  learned  from  her. 
It  certainly  pleased  her  in  him,  as  if  she  felt  that  he  paid 
his  tribute  to  her  heart  and  understanding  in  times  of 
emergency  by  this  complete  absence  of  preliminaries. 

"  I  think,"  said  Danforth,  "  that  if  Miss  Arkwright  will 
permit  us  to  do  so,  we  had  better  take  Mrs.  Henderson 
directly  to  a  bedchamber." 

"  I  think  that  will  be  better  too,  Dr.  Danforth,"  an- 
swered Cynthia.  "  Take  her  straight  up  to  my  room,  if 
you  do  not  mind  the  climb,  for  we  can  do  more  for  her 
there.  You  think  she  has  only  fainted  ?"  she  asked,  in 
an  awe-struck  tone. 

"  Mrs.  Henderson  was  thrown  from  her  carriage  and 
received  a  severe  blow  on  the  head,"  said  Dr.  Danforth. 
"  She  is  now  stunned,  and  we  cannot  tell  until  conscious- 
ness is  restored  how  severely  she  may  be  injured.  I 
feel  confident,  however,  that  there  are  no  bones  broken, 
although  some  of  the  joints  may  be  strained,  which  is 
often  a  bad  business." 

After  Mrs.  Henderson  had  been  safely  deposited  on 
Cynthia's  bed  and  Ledyard  had  gone  to  Danforth's 
house  for  some  drugs  and  a  case  of  instruments  required, 
while  old  Marjory  supplied  the  doctor's  demands  for  hot 
bricks,  hot  water,  etc.,  there  was  no  excuse  for  Ledyard 
to  linger.  Accordingly  he  took  his  leave,  begging  Cyn- 
thia to  send  for  him  if  there  were  anything  more  he 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  9! 

could  do,  and  promising  to  call  and  inquire  that  even- 
ing. . 

Just  as  he  was  going,  Dr.  Danforth,  who  had  followed 
him  down-stairs,  handed  him  a  telegram  to  take  to  the 
office,  asking  if,  as  he  passed  through  the  village,  he  would 
not  be  kind  enough  to  see  that  it  went  immediately. 

"  It  is  to  her  husband,"  continued  Danforth.  "  I  am 
not  at  all  confident  of  the  result  of  this  accident,  and  he 
should  know  of  her  danger.  It  is  most  fortunate  that 
when  I  met  him  yesterday  he  spoke  of  going  to  Balti- 
more this  morning,  and  he  chanced  to  mention  that  he 
always  dined  at  the  Albion." 

The  message  was  addressed  to  Lieutenant  Henderson, 
Albion  Club,  Baltimore.  Ledyard  recognized  the  name 
with  a  start. 

"  Is  Lieutenant  Henderson  the  husband  of  this  lady, 
then  ?"  he  asked.  "  I  did  not  know  that  he  was  a  mar- 
ried man  !" 

"  Millard  Henderson  ?  Why,  of  course  he  is  mar- 
ried. He  has  been  married  for  five  or  six  years,  but  he 
has  been  most  of  the  time  on  active  duty,  and  his  wife 
and  child  have  been  living  abroad.  Did  you  not  know 
that  he  is  a  part  owner  of  the  cotton-mill  ?" 

"  I  knew  that  they  were  partly  owned  by  a  Mr.  Hen- 
derson, but  I  fancied,  I  supposed,  Lieutenant  Henderson 
was  his  brother." 

"  I  never  heard  of  Millard  Henderson's  having  any 
brother,"  said  Danforth.  "  I  used  to  know  him  years 
ago,  and  I  always  understood  that  he  was  an  only  son. 
But  I  must  go  back  to  my  patient." 

No  one  could  be  more  thoughtful  and  quietly  efficient 
than  Cynthia,  proved  herself  in  the  sick-room,  nor  was 
Danforth  surprised  at  this.  He  had  seen  too  much  of 
her  kindness  in  time  of  disaster  or  affliction  to  all  sorts 
and  conditions  of  people  to  have  questioned  her  benevo- 
lent hospitality  even  for  one  moment,  in  spite  of  the  love 
of  solitude  for  which  she  was  famed  in  the  neighborho  id 
and  the  absolute  retirement  in  which  she  had  chosen  to 
live.  It  seemed  to  him,  however,  that  she  was  especially 


92 


BROKEN  CHORDS. 


tender  and  pitying  as  consciousness  began  gradually  to 
come  back  to  the  pale,  fragile  little  woman  who  had  thus 
been  brought  to  her  door. 

Mrs.  Henderson  looked  about  her  in  dismay,  at  the 
large,  cheerful  room,  with  its  old-fashioned  furniture,  the 
elaborate  chintz  hangings  of  the  great  four-posted  bed  in 
which  she  found  herself,  and  the  faces  of  old  Marjory 
and  Danforth,  neither  of  which  she  had  ever  seen  before. 
Cynthia  she  did  not  see,  as  she  managed  to  slip  behind 
Danforth  at  the  moment  Mrs.  Henderson  opened  her  eyes, 
and,  beckoning  him  from  the  room,  explained  that  she 
thought  it  would  be  wiser  that  Mrs.  Henderson  should  not 
see  her  just  yet,  as  she  had  seemed  startled  by  her  sudden 
appearance  with  her  dog  on  the  way  to  the  station  that 
morning,  and  had  had  trouble  in  managing  the  horses  in 
consequence,  even  then.  "  She  might  easily  associate  me 
with  the  accident,"  Miss  Arkwright  explained  ;  and  Dan- 
forth acquiesced  in  the  wisdom  of  the  suggestion,  gave  his 
instructions  to  old  Marjory  on  going  away,  and  left  her  in 
charge  of  the  patient,  subject  to  Cynthia's  orders,  bidding 
them  both  to  be  cautious  about  answering  questions. 

Indeed,  they  did  what  they  could  to  soothe  and  quiet 
her ;  but  it  soon  became  apparent  that  no  outward  in- 
fluence could  help  or  harm  her.  To  the  first  look  of 
wonder  there  succeeded  one  of  apathy  in  the  poor  lady's 
face.  A  dark  color  flooded  her  pale  cheeks,  and  she  lay 
with  dull,  unseeing  eyes,  lost  to  all  that  passed. 

Meanwhile  the  hours  wore  on,  and  it  grew  near  the 
time  for  the  arrival  of  the  evening  train  from  Baltimore. 
Ledyard,  who  had  sent  the  telegram  intrusted  to  him 
by  Danforth,  was  possessed  by  a  restless  anxiety,  which 
would  not  allow  him  to  settle  down  to  any  of  his  ordi- 
nary occupations.  Unwelcome  thoughts  were  crowding 
upon  him  ever  since  Danforth  had  assured  him  that  Mrs. 
Henderson's  husband  and  Lieutenant  Henderson  were 
one  and  the  same.  Richard  wondered  if  he  could  have 
been  mistaken  in  the  name  by  which  Miss  Arkwright 
had  addressed  the  man  who  seemed  to  have  intruded 
himself  on  her  so  unexpectedly  a  few  evenings  before. 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  93 

Was  that  man  married  then,  and,  if  so,  what  right  had  he 
to  seek  such  an  interview,  or  to  speak  to  Miss  Arkwright 
in  such  authoritative  tones  ?  Ledyard's  blood  began  to 
heat  at  the  memory  of  the  fellow's  manner.  He  was  all 
the  more  angry  that  there  had  been  a  certain  dignity  in 
it  in  spite  of  its  effrontery,  which  had  deceived  him  at  the 
time  into  believing  in  the  probability  that  some  tie,  either 
of  relationship  or  of  her  own  making,  existed  between 
Miss  Arkwright  and  the  stranger. 

Certainly  there  could  be  no  relationship  in  this  case, 
and  he  was  equally  sure  that  there  was  no  other  tie  now, 
whatever  there  might  have  been  in  the  past. 

From  Ledyard's  point  of  view,  no  past  tie  could  give 
him  the  right  to  force  an  interview  upon  Cynthia,  who 
had  refused  to  receive  him,  and,  considering  that  Hen- 
derson had  behaved  very  badly,  Ledyard  could  not  but 
look  upon  it  as  a  most  untoward  turn  of  events  that  ho 
should  be  made  the  instrument  of  bringing  him  to  her 
house.  Just  as  he  came  to  this  conclusion  he  was  start- 
led by  a  double  knock  on  his  study  door,  and  was  handed 
a  hasty  scrawl  by  Danforth's  office-boy : 

"  Henderson  cannot  safely  see  his  wife  to-night.  All 
possible  excitement  must  be  avoided.  Please  meet  him 
at  the  station  and  explain.  I  am  prevented.  Tell  him 
I  will  watch  her  carefully,  and  he  shall  hear  of  any 
change.  Miss  Arkwright  has  done  everything  that 
could  be  done  to  make  her  comfortable.  Hope  for  better 
news  to-morrow.  DANFORTH." 

Ledyard  looked  at  his  watch.  It  wanted  a  few  mo- 
ments of  the  hour  when  the  train  might  be  expected. 
He  took  his  hat  and  went  out. 

It  was  with  a  strange  mixture  of  feelings  that  he  ap- 
proached the  railway-station.  Somehow  he  shrank  un- 
accountably from  the  interview  before  him.  He  did  not 
pity  the  man  he  was  going  to  meet,  and  yet  he  was  sorry 
for  his  misfortune.  He  was  glad  of  a  sufficient  reason 
for  warning  him  not  to  go  to  the  house,  but  keenly 


94 


BROKEN  CHORDS. 


regretful  of  the  increased  danger  of  the  poor  little  lady, 
whose  sad  set  face  appealed  to  him  strangely,  and  had 
haunted  him  since  the  morning  with  a  curious  sense  of 
familiarity.  It  was  like  some  face  which  he  had  seen 
before,  but  where  he  could  not  tell.  He  was  aroused 
from  the  effort  to  place  it  in  his  memory  by  the  approach 
of  the  train  from  Baltimore,  which  came  in  sight  just  as 
he  reached  the  station. 

A  tall  man,  with  broad  shoulders,  got  quickly  out  of 
one  car,  and  was  rushing  past  Ledyard,  when  he  stopped 
him  by  a  detaining  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  Is  this  Lieutenant  Henderson  ?"  he  asked. 

"  It  is,"  with  a  quick  glance  of  restrained  impatience. 

"  I  am  Mr.  Ledyard,  the  rector  of  St.  Andrew's." 

"  Ah !  Mr.  Ledyard,  happy  to  meet  you ;  have  been 
hoping  to  make  your  acquaintance;  but  just  at  present 
you  must  excuse  me.  I  am  in  great  anxiety  about  my 
wife,  who  has  met  with  an  accident.  Good-evening." 
He  would  have  been  gone,  but  Ledyard  said, — 

"  It  is  about  your  wife,  sir,  that  I  wish  to  speak  to  you. 

I  have  a  note  here  from  Dr.  Danforth Why,  what 

is  the  matter  ?  Here,  lean  on  me."  At  the  name  of 
Danforth  Henderson  had  turned  suddenly  pale,  stag- 
gered, and  might  have  fallen  if  Ledyard  had  not  sup- 
ported him. 

"  Is  my  wife  living?"  he  now  asked,  tightening  his 
grasp  on  Ledyard's  arm. 

"  She  is  not  only  alive,  but  conscious.  Come  into  the 
station,  and  I  will  show  you  the  doctor's  note.  There 
is  nothing  to  warrant  your  agitation,  I  assure  you." 

Henderson  submitted  to  be  led  into  the  waiting-room, 
which  was  deserted  at  this  hour,  and  where  one  dim 
lamp  was  burning.  By  its  light  he  read  Danforth's  note, 
but  as  Ledyard's  eyes  followed  his  he  perceived  that  it 
did  not  appear  so  reassuring  as  he  had  expected.  There 
was,  indeed,  but  one  sentence  which  seemed  intended 
to  inspire  hope,  and  that  was  in  the  future.  Henderson 
was  apparently  mystified  by  the  words  relating  to  Cynthia. 

"  Is  Miss  Arkwright  at  Fernwood  ?"  he  asked. 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  95 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Ledyard,  remembering  suddenly 
that  the  telegram  he  had  sent  that  day  only  told  the 
bare  fact  of  the  accident,  and  that  Mrs.  Henderson  had 
sustained  "no  apparent  injury,"  but  was  "still  uncon- 
scious from  the  shock."  "  Mrs.  Henderson's  carriage 
upset  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,"  he  explained,  "  and  as  Miss 
Arkwright's  house  was  the  nearest,  she  was  taken  there 
immediately." 

"  Ah,  indeed !"  Henderson's  tone  was  one  which 
Ledyard  could  not  translate ;  his  face,  too,  was  inscruta- 
ble. "  I  shall  not  attempt  to  see  Mrs.  Henderson  to- 
night," he  said  presently,  "  as  it  might  be  injurious;  but 
I  must  see  Danforth  and  know  what  he  thinks.  I  must 
also  ascertain  whether  this  arrangement  is  agreeable  to 
Miss  Arkwright." 

Ledyard  told  him  that  he  had  intended  himself  to 
walk  back  to  inquire  if  there  were  anything  he  could 
do,  and  proposed  that  they  should  go  together,  to  which 
Henderson  assented,  as  though  glad  not  to  be  left  to  his 
own  company ;  but  he  did  not  start  immediately.  After 
a  pause  he  asked,  with  evident  effort, — 

"  Do  you  happen  to  know  anything  about  the  accident, 
Mr.  Ledyard? — how  it  happened,  or  who  saw  it?" 

"  I  do  indeed,  for  I  saw  the  whole  thing  myself,"  re- 
plied Richard,  more  gently  than  he  had  spoken.  Surely 
this  was  not  the  impetuous,  selfish  man  he  had  taken 
him  for,  who  could  submit  so  patiently  to  the  physi- 
cian's decree  as  to  what  was  best  for  the  sufferer,  and 
yet  was  so  unmistakably  overcome  with  grief  at  the 
fear  of  losing  her !  "  I  was  the  first  to  reach  Mrs.  "Hen- 
derson," he  proceeded,  "  although  I  was  able  to  do  very 
little  for  her  until  Dr.  Danforth  came  to  help  me."  He 
then  told  of  the  flight  of  the  horses,  of  her  rash  effort 
to  turn  them,  the  accident  to  the  groom,  the  recovery  of 
the  ponies,  and  how  he  and  Dr.  Danforth  carried  Mrs. 
Henderson  to  Cynthia  Arkwright's  cottage. 

"And  Miss  Arkwright?"  asked  Henderson,  who  was 
gradually  regaining  his  composure.  "Was  she  very 
much  shocked  ?" 


96  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

"  I  fear  so ;  but  she  behaved  with  great  courage  and 
presence  of  mind.  No  one  could  have  appeared  more 
glad  to  be  of  service." 

Millard  Henderson  smiled,  a  fine  smile,  but  a  strange 
one,  for  in  the  midst  of  it  he  raised  his  hand  and  dashed 
away  a  tear.  "  I  think  we  had  better  go,"  he  said,  rising. 
"  Thank  you,  I  do  not  need  your  arm  now,  but  I  am 
none  the  less  grateful  for  it  when  I  did."  He  turned 
towards  Ledyard,  as  he  spoke,  with  the  winning  frankness 
of  expression  which  was  peculiar  to  him  at  times.  The 
younger  man  felt  its  charm,  as  many  another  had  felt  it. 
Indeed,  so  completely  were  his  sentiments  altered  with 
regard  to  Henderson  that  he  marvelled  within  himself,  as 
they  walked  away  together,  at  the  mingled  dislike  and 
distrust  of  him  which  he  remembered  that  he  had  been 
struggling  with  a  half  an  hour  before,  as  he  approached 
the  station. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

WHEN  Ledyard  and  Henderson  arrived  at  Cynthia's 
house,  the  message  at  the  door  was  to  the  effect  that 
Mrs.  Henderson  was  "  about  the  same."  It  was  delivered 
by  Anastasia  Baker,  who  had  been  pressed  into  the  ser- 
vice to  save  old  Marjory's  steps.  Ledyard,  in  accord- 
ance with  his  companion's  wishes,  asked  if  the  doctor 
were  there,  and,  learning  that  he  was,  sent  in  search  of 
him. 

"  Tell  Dr.  Danforth  that  Mr.  Ledyard  would  like  to 
see  him.  Speak  low,  and  do  not  say  that  there  is  any 
one  with  me,"  he  commanded. 

Danforth  soon  appeared,  and  Richard  was  relieved  to 
see  that  his  face  looked  much  brighter  than  it  had  looked 
earlier  in  the  day. 

"  She  is  recovering  from  the  shock,"  he  said,  in  a 
cheerful  whisper,  "  and  she  has  just  fallen  asleep.  If  she 
continues  to  do  as  well  as  this,  I  look  for  a  decided 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  97 

change  for  the  better  to-morrow.  Why,  Henderson,  is 
that  you  ?  Don't  look  so  cut  up,  old  fellow.  All  may 
be  well  yet." 

"  You  think  my  wife  may  live  ?" 

"  I  am  sure  of  it,  unless  some  worse  symptom  should 
develop." 

"  That  is,  you  are  sure  that  she  has  received  no  fatal 
injury?" 

"  None  that  I  can  detect." 

"  I  can't  thank  you  in  words,  Danforth,"  said  Hender- 
son to  the  doctor.  The  two  men  grasped  each  other's 
hands  warmly.  Richard  walked  off  to  a  little  distance, 
that  they  might  talk  at  ease.  "There  can  be  no  doubt 
of  it, — not  the  slightest  doubt  whatever,"  Danforth  was 
saying  as  Ledyard  returned ;  "  but  if  it  would  relieve 
your  mind  at  all,  I  will  go  and  ask  Miss  Cynthia 
and  tell  you  what  she  says."  He  went  in,  leaving 
them  on  the  steps  of  the  veranda,  and  proceeded  in 
search  of  Miss  Arkwright,  who  had  resumed  her  post 
by  the  bedside  since  Mrs.  Henderson  had  become  again 
unconscious  of  those  about  her  through  the  troubled 
sleep  of  fever.  Danforth  wrote  a  few  words  on  a 
prescription  blank  and  handed  it  to  Cynthia,  with  the 
pencil.  She  read  them  in  silence,  turned  the  paper 
over,  and  wrote  her  answer  on  the  other  side.  With 
this  he  returned  to  Lieutenant  Henderson,  who  also 
read  the  question  and  answer,  which  ran  thus : 

"  Henderson  is  here  to  ask  for  his  wife.  I  cannot  let 
him  see  her.  He  is  also  anxious  about  the  trouble  we 
are  all  giving  you.  H.  D." 

"  Tell  Lieutenant  Henderson  that  I  am  so  sorry  for 
him,  and  for  Mrs.  Henderson,  that  I  am  thankful  there 
is  anything  I  can  do.  C.  A." 

"  God  bless  her !"  murmured  Henderson ;  then  added, 
just  as  the  doctor  was  again  turning  back  to  the  cot- 
tage, "  Does  Mrs.  Henderson  know  where  she  is  ?" 
E      9  9 


98  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

"  It  is  just  possible  she  may  know.  I  think  not,"  said 
Danforth.  "She  probably  knows  that  she  is  not  at 
home,  but  Miss  Arkwright  was  careful  not  to  let  her  see 
her  during  the  few  moments  that  she  was  conscious,  be- 
cause she  fancied  that,  as  she  happened  to  startle  the 
horses  on  their  way  to  the  station  this  morning,  she 
might  be  associated  by  Mrs.  Henderson  with  the  acci- 
dent." 

"  I  quite  agree  with  Miss  Arkwright,"  said  Millard, 
"  and  think  it  better  that  my  wife  should  not  be  told  she 
is  in  her  house,  for  the  present.  I  mean,  if  she  should 
be  able  to  understand,"  he  added,  with  some  emotion. 

"That  can  easily  be  managed,"  returned  Danforth, 
cheerfully.  "  She  can  be  led  to  suppose  herself  at  the 
house  of  one  of  the  villagers.  I  will  speak  to  Miss 
Cynthia  about  it.  I  must  not  stay  to  talk,  though.  It 
is  a  critical  time  just  now,  and  anything  which  should 
wake  or  agitate  her  might  turn  the  scales." 

After  the  doctor  had  left  them,  Ledyard  tried  to  per- 
suade Henderson  to  go  home  with  him  for  the  night; 
but  he  said  he  must  get  back  to  his  little  boy.  The 
child  had  been  all  day  among  servants,  and  would  be 
anxiously  looking  for  his  mother's  return.  Richard  could 
only  prevail  so  far  as  to  induce  him  to  hire  a  conveyance 
in  the  village  to  take  him  to  Fernwood,  instead  of 
walking  home,  as  he  at  first  proposed. 

Thus  perched  high  on  an  old-fashioned  chaise,  such 
as  the  Dundaff  livery-stable  could  supply,  Henderson 
was  soon  approaching  the  entrance  of  Fernwood,  where 
he  was  welcomed  by  the  gleam  of  a  lantern  that  shot 
out  far  into  the  night.  It  proved  to  be  in  the  hands  of 
a  faithful  old  negro  servant  who  had  been  on  the  place 
since  Millard  was  a  boy.  The  good  woman  was  peering 
out  anxiously  through  the  darkness  for  the  first  sight 
of  the  vehicle  of  the  approach  of  which  she  had  been 
warned  by  the  sound  of  wheels. 

"  I  fought  de  Massa'd  come  home  de  night,"  she  said. 
"  I  say  he'll  come  home  to  de  chile,  even  dough  he  talk 
about  staying  all  night  in  Baltimer." 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  99 

"  Yes,  Aunt  Dinah  ;  but  you  know  why  I  have  ccme 
back  from  Baltimore.  It  is,  of  course,  on  Wilfred's  ac- 
count that  I  am  here." 

"  Oh,  Lord  'a'  mercy  on  us !  have  you  heard  de 
fearful  news,  den  ?  I  kind  a  fought  to  fetch  it  to  you 
easy." 

"  I  was  telegraphed  for,"  said  Henderson,  briefly. 

"  An'  is  dere  any  turn  for  de  better  in  de  Missus  ?" 

Millard  gave  her  the  last  information  of  his  wife's 
condition,  adding,  "  How  is  the  boy?" 

"Oh,  he's  well  enuff.  Dere  won't  no  harm  come  to 
him,  little  hunney !  Not  while  ole  Dinah's  'bout !" 

"  Has  he  heard  of  the  accident  to  his  mother?" 

"  Lord  bress  you,  no,  sir !  D'you  t'ink  Aunt  Dinah  'ud 
be  so  foolish  as  to  let  dem  tell  him  dat  ?  Why,  he  cry 
fit  to  kill  about  de  pony's  bein'  cut,  when  he  see  it 
comin'  back,  wid  de  wagon  all  broke  and  Paul's  clothes 
all  tore,  and  he  wid  a  bandage  round  his  leg.  I  tell 
Massa  Wilfred  dat  his  mamma  she  done  change  her  mind 
and  gone  to  Baltimer  wid  his  papa,  and  he  take  it  all  fo' 
de  bressed  trufe." 

"  And  where  is  he  now  ?" 

"  Fast  asleep,  de  little  mischief!" 

Millard  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief.  He  had  been  brood- 
ing anxiously  all  the  way  home  as  to  how  the  report  of 
his  mother's  danger  might  affect  the  excitable  little 
fellow,  knowing  that  it  would  not  be  likely  to  lose  its 
importance  in  the  groom's  narration.  Now  there  would 
be  no  need  of  his  knowing  anything  to-night. 

He  did  not  attempt  to  go  to  bed  himself,  but  lay  down 
on  the  long  sofa  in  his  private  study,  with  an  old  naval 
cloak  about  him,  to  be  ready  to  go  at  any  moment  that 
the  doctor  might  send  for  him.  He  slept  little,  and 
thought  much,  through  the  night,  but  found  his  way  to 
Cynthia's  house  early  in  the  morning,  where  he  was  for- 
tunate enough  to  meet  Danforth  just  coming  out,  and 
was  told  that,  on  the  whole,  his  wife  was  doing  well. 
She  had  been  restless  during  the  night,  and  complained 
of  much  pain  in  her  head  and  limbs,  but  she  had  no 


100  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

fever.  He  walked  back  feeling  more  hopeful,  and  got  to 
Fernwood  just  in  time  to  breakfast  with  Wilfred.  After 
the  boy  had  eaten  his  oatmeal  porridge,  he  took  him  on 
his  knee  and  told  him  what  h  \d  happened.  The  child 
looked  frightened  and  be.vildered. 

"  Oh,  papa !  was  mamma  cut  like  poor  Montmo- 
renci  ?"  he  asked,  in  troubled  tones.  "  You  know  Sague- 
nay's  hoofs  came  right  down  on  Moi  tmorenci's  side, 
and  when  they  were  driven  home  he  had  blood  on 
him."  (These  were  the  names  of  the  Canadian  ponies.) 

"  Did  he,  indeed  ?" 

"  Yes,  papa ;  and  Paul's  leg  hurt  him.  I  am  so  glad 
you  were  not  in  the  carriage !" 

Millard  frowned.  "  If  I  had  been  there  I  might  have 
helped  your  mother,"  he  said,  briefly. 

"  Are  you  angry  with  me,  papa  ?" 

"  No ;  but  I  am  disappointed.  I  thought  you  had 
more  feeling  for  your  mamma." 

Wilfred  burst  into  tears.  "  But  I  do  feel  for  mamma," 
he  said,  earnestly.  "  I  feel  very  much  for  mamma,  and 
I  am  so  sorry  about  it,  and  about  Paul,  and  the  horses ; 
but,  papa  dear,  it  is  not  quite  as  bad  as  if  it  were  you." 

"  It  is  much  worse  than  if  it  were  me,  because  your 
mother  is  not  so  strong,"  returned  his  father,  sternly. 
"  But  go  and  get  Dinah  to  wash  your  face.  It  is  not 
manly  to  cry." 

"  May  I  put  on  my  hat,  too  ?  Did  you  not  say  that 
you  were  going  to  take  me  with  you  to  the  village  ?" 

"  I  will  if  you  are  good,"  returned  Henderson,  relent- 
ing a  little,  and  the  boy  ran  eagerly  from  the  room ;  but 
he  did  not  look  after  him  proudly  as  usual. 

His  mood  was  one  in  which  he  hardly  understood 
himself.  It  was  a  strange  mixture  of  pained  self- 
reproach  and  anxiety.  A  voice  cried  out  with  remorse- 
ful eagerness  within  him  that  if  only  his  wife  might  re- 
cover he  would  do  a  hundred  things  to  make  her  happy 
which  he  had  never  done  before.  He  had  been  telling 
himself  all  night  of  ways  in  which  he  had  failed  in  his 
duty  towards  her,  and  yet  he  had  hitherto  conscientiously 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  IOI 

believed  that  he  did  fulfil  his  duty.  So  many  degrees 
are  there  of  gentleness,  consideration,  and  forbearance, 
according  to  the  standard  one  happens  to  place  before 
one  of  those  virtues,  and  so  few  of  us  could  take  the 
highest  honors,  even  in  our  own  estimation,  after  the  last 
examination. 

Millard  Henderson's  conduct  to  Posey  for  the  past 
five  years  certainly  deserved  no  such  award.  It  bore  a 
very  different  aspect,  when  thus  viewed  in  recapitulation, 
from  that  which  had  presented  itself  to  him  as  the  years 
were  going  by.  He  knew  that  he  had  not  been  unkind 
to  her ;  but  had  he  always  been  kind  ?  Even  during  the 
short  time  that  they  were  together  there  had  been  many 
days  when  he  must  have  seemed  what  he  was, — utterly  in- 
different to  anything  that  his  wife  might  do,  or  say,  or 
think.  She  had  never  disgraced  him,  and  he  had  felt  con- 
fident that  she  would  not.  Now  that  he  Ic-oked  back  on 
/  it,  it  seemed  strange  that  he  had  had  such  confidence 
without  feeling  more  respect  and  affection ;  considering 
that  she  was  still  young,  was  unusually  pretty,  and  that  he 
had  left  her  for  long  periods  at  a  time  under  his  aunt's 
nominal  protection,  but  still  practically  free  to  go  any- 
where, do  anything,  or  receive  any  attention  from  whom 
or  how  she  pleased.  There  was  but  one  explanation  for 
such  tranquillity  of  mind  on  his  part.  It  arose  from  the 
fact  that,  while  he  did  not  love  her,  he  knew  that  she 
loved  him.  To  be  sure,  Mrs.  Henderson  had  never 
made  any  show  of  affection  for  her  husband,  any  more 
than  she  did  for  her  child.  She  was  not  of  an  enthusias- 
tic temperament,  and  spent  her  force  in  seeing  that  her 
boy  was  dressed  in  the  latest  fashion,  and  in  so  ordering 
her  menage  when  her  husband  was  with  her  that  his 
dinners  and  luncheons  should  be  thoroughly  comfortable ; 
but  while  the  child  felt  instinctively  a  want  of  warmth 
in  her  sentiment  for  him  and  turned  with  his  whole 
heart  towards  his  father,  Millard  never  doubted  that  her 
love  was  as  strong  and  as  tender  towards  himself  as  her 
nature  was  capable  of  rendering  it. 

******** 

9* 


IO2  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

Henderson  looked  up  from  his  revery,  to  see  Wilfred, 
hat  in  hand,  standing  very  quietly  by  his  side.  He  had 
his  blue  eyes  fixed  upon  his  father  with  great  earnest- 
ness. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  about,  papa  ?"  he  asked.  "  Is 
it  about  mamma  ?" 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  I  was  thinking,  my  boy,"  said 
Millard,  lifting  the  little  fellow's  chin  and  looking  gravely 
and  gently  into  his  face.  "  I  was  thinking  that  you  and 
I  have  not  loved  mamma  enough, — not  as  much  as  she 
deserves." 

That  same  morning,  when  Danforth  repeated  Hender- 
son's suggestion  to  Cynthia,  of  not  telling  Mrs.  Hen- 
derson where  she  was,  she  was  very  glad  to  adopt  it,  as 
affording  an  escape  from  what  she  had  secretly  felt  to  be 
an  embarrassing  situation.  Accordingly,  the  next  time 
that  Mrs.  Henderson  turned  on  her  pillows  and  looked 
restlessly  about  her,  Dr.  Danforth  approached,  and  ex- 
plained to  her  what  had  happened,  and  that  she  had 
been  brought  to  the  cottage  of  a  very  worthy  woman, 
near  whose  door  the  accident  had  taken  place. 

"How  long  have  I  been  here?"  she  asked,  anxiously. 

"  Only  since  yesterday  morning." 

"  Then  Mr.  Henderson  has  not  yet  returned  ?" 

"Yes,  Lieutenant  Henderson  got  back  sooner  than 
he  expected.  He  came  here  last  evening  hoping  to  see 
you,  but,  as  you  had  just  fallen  asleep,  I  thought  it  best 
not  to  wake  you.  We  doctors  are  very  dictatorial  some- 
times," he  added,  with  a  smile. 

"  Oh,  then  you  are  a  doctor  ?" 

"  I  am  Dr.  Danforth.  I  have  known  your  husband 
for  a  great  many  years,  although  we  had  not  met  for 
quite  a  long  while,  until  lately." 

"  1  think  I  remember,"  said  Mrs.  Henderson,  putting 
her  hand  to  her  head,  as  if  she  were  rendered  giddy 
by  the  effort  to  recall  the  conversation  of  the  morning 
before. 

"  Do  not  try  to  remember  anything  just  now,"  said 
Dr.  Danforth.  "  Here  is  your  maid,  just  come  from 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  103 

Fernwood,  with  a  number  of  little  comforts  which  your 
husband  thought  you  might  need.  I  will  leave  her  with 
you  now ;  but  the  less  you  talk  the  better." 

Then  came  Teresa  with  the  familiar  ways  which  were 
so  comforting  to  her  mistress  after  all  the  strange  fades 
and  in  this  strange  place  where  she  found  herself.  She 
wanted  the  maid  to  tell  her  just  how  the  accident  hap- 
pened, and  whether  the  groom  was  hurt,  and  when  Mr. 
Henderson  had  returned,  and  how  he  had  heard  of  the 
misfortune ;  to  all  of  which  questions  Teresa  replied  that 
Mr.  Henderson  and  Wilfred  would  -be  there  soon,  and 
that  the  doctor  said  the  quieter  she  kept  the  more  quickly 
she  would  get  well. 

When  a  little  later  the  father  and  son  did  come,  they 
were  admitted  by  old  Marjory,  who  said,  with  a  respect- 
ful courtesy,  that  Miss  Arkwright  had  gone  out,  but 
had  left  word  that  Mr.  Henderson  should  be  shown 
up  to  see  the  invalid  whenever  he  came,  as  the  doctor 
said  that  it  would  not  do  her  any  harm  to  see  him  this 
morning,  if  she  were  "  not  hallowed  to  talk." 

"  I  shall  not  let  her  talk  too  much,"  said  Millard,  no- 
ticing the  emphasis  which  the  old  woman  put  on  the  last 
word,  and  strode  past  her  up  the  stairs. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  describe  the  mingled  feelings 
with  which  he  entered  the  room  above.  He  knew  by 
instinct  that  it  was  Cynthia's,  even  if  the  hundred  little 
belongings  which  surround  a  woman  like  an  atmos- 
phere and  unconsciously  tell  of  her  life  had  not  spoken 
so  plainly  to  his  perception  as  to  put  it  beyond  question. 

The  chamber  in  which  Mrs.  Henderson  lay  had  once 
been  Miss  Pinsley's.  It  was  spread  over  the  entire 
second  story  of  the  house,  except  for  an  irregular  slice 
off  one  corner  for  the  narrow  entry  from  which  a  tiny 
stair-way  led  to  Marjory's  room,  and  the  room  Cynthia 
used  to  sleep  in  as  a  girl,  where  the  slanting  sides  were 
bright  for  her  with  many  a  vision  now  faded,  but,  except 
for  this  tapestry  of  the  imagination,  were  bare  enough. 
Her  aunt's  room,  on  the  other  hand,  was  filled  with 
homely  comforts,  giving  it  an  air  of  simple  luxury,  with 


IO4  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

windows  looking  back  over  a  wide  expanse  of  country, 
a  fertile  valley,  with  sloping  fields,  and  woods  and  grazing 
cattle ;  and  windows  in  front  from  which,  when  the  green 
shutters,  now  closed,  were  open,  one  could  see  the  garden 
gay  with  flowers,  the  rural  path  beyond,  only  marked  by 
the  track  of  cart-wheels  deep  sunk  in  the  green  sod, 
which  led  from  the  main  road  to  the  valley,  and  then 
the  tall  bushes  and  the  evergreens  which  separated  this 
path  and  sheltered  the  house  from  the  dusty  highway. 

As  he  first  set  foot  in  this  apartment  it  was  but  natu- 
ral that  some  thought  should  have  visited  Henderson  of 
the  purity  and  beauty  of  the  last  of  the  two  lives  it  had 
enshrined,  even  though  he  entered  at  the  same  moment 
the  presence  of  the  wife  whom  he  had  come  so  near 
losing,  and  had  just  been  assuring  himself  that  he  had 
failed  to  cherish  as  he  would.  In  the  midst  of  the  great 
four-posted  bedstead,  indeed,  lay  Posey.  The  poor  pale 
face,  the  fair  hair  brushed  away  from  the  pretty  temples, 
the  eager,  loving  eyes,  and  the  little  hand  stretched  out 
to  his,  all  made  an  impression  which  he  never  forgot. 
Somehow  he  seemed  to  be  looking  at  his  wife  through 
a  new  pair  of  eyes. 

"  Here  is  little  Wilfred  come  to  see  you,  my  dear," 
said  Millard,  when  the  first  greeting  between  them  was 
over,  lifting  the  boy  and  placing  him  on  the  bed  beside 
her.  "  He  has  just  been  talking  to  Mr.  Ledyard,"  added 
Millard,  "  who  was  so  kind  yesterday  in  going  to  your 
aid." 

She  was  holding  out  her  arms  to  Wilfred,  when  sud- 
denly she  recoiled  as  if  something  had  struck  her. 

"  Why,  what  is  the  matter,  Posey  ?  Are  you  suffering 
more  pain  ?" 

"  To  whom  did  you  say  Wilfred  had  been  talking  ?" 
gasped  Posey. 

"  I  said  that  he  was  talking  to  Mr.  Ledyard,  the  clergy- 
man here.  He  seemed  to  take  a  great  fancy  to  the  boy." 

Mrs.  Henderson  became  as  white  as  the  pillow  on 
which  she  lay. 

"  I  did  not  know  the  name  of  the  clergyman  here." 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  IO5 

she  said.     "  Did  you  say  he  helped  me  ?     How  ?    What 
is  his  other  name  ?" 

"  I  have  heard,  but  forget.  Richard,  I  think.  But  I 
fear  you  are  much  less  well.  It  will  not  do  to  talk  any 
more.  The  effort  has  been  too  much  for  you.  Wilfred, 
run  down  and  ask  old  Marjory  to  come  here  with  some 
brandy.  Tell  her  mamma  feels  faint."  He  seized  a 
bottle  of  cologne  which  stood  near,  and  held  it  to  her 
nose,  fanning  her  vigorously  at  the  same  time  with  the 
brim  of  his  straw  hat.  "  What  a  fool  I  was  to  talk  of 
the  accident!"  he  muttered  to  himself.  "  I  might  have 
known  it  would  be  the  worst  thing  for  her." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 
(EXTRACT  FROM  THE  JOURNAL  OF  CYNTHIA  ARKWRIGHT.) 

"  Friday  evening. 

"lam  sitting  all  alone  in  the  kitchen.  Marjory  is 
taking  care  of  Mrs.  Henderson,  while  Teresa  sleeps,  so 
that  she  can  remain  with  her  for  the  rest  of  the  night. 

"  How  fortunate  that  Dr.  Danforth  came  back  to-day 
just  when  he  did!  Marjory  said  that  Mrs.  Henderson 
was  white  as  death,  and  her  husband  was  much  alarmed. 
She  had  seen  too  many  people,  the  doctor  thought 
To-morrow  she  is  to  have  no  excitement  whatever.  Old 
Marjory  and  Teresa  are  to  take  turns  in  nursing  her. 
There  is  no  need  of  my  sitting  in  the  kitchen,  of  course, 
as  the  drawing-room  is  quite  empty,  but  if  there  I 
should  be  likely  to  be  seen  by  any  one  who  came  to 
ask  for  Mrs.  Henderson,  and  I  would  rather  not  be 
seen  by  every  one.  How  strange  all  this  seems !  It 
has  the  incongruity  of  a  dream,  the  inconvenience  of  a 
reality.  I  have  managed  so  far  not  to  meet  Millard 
Henderson,  and  fully  believe  that  he  will  try  to  make 
it  easy  for  me  to  avoid  him,  but  I  sometimes  wonder 


106  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

whether  it  would  not  be  better  for  us  to  plunge  in  boldly 
and  treat  one  another  as  old  acquaintances.  If  so,  I 
must  meet  his  wife  as  well.  A  great  deal  would  depend 
on  her  manner,  in  my  feeling  about  seeing  anything  of 
him. 

"  Later. — As  I  finished  the  last  sentence  I  heard  a 
footstep  on  the  veranda.  It  paused  irresolutely,  and 
then  came  a  faint  ring  of  the  bell.  I  waited,  expecting 
Anastasia  to  open  the  door,  but  she  did  not  appear. 
The  seconds  wore  into  moments.  I  slipped  up-stairs  to 
call  her,  and  found  the  poor  child  in  bed  and  fast  asleep. 
There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  go  to  the  door  myself. 
I  did,  so  with  a  beating  heart,  and  found  that,  as  I  had 
suspected,  the  person  who  stood  outside  was  Lieutenant 
Henderson.  It  was  evident  that  he  was  not  surprised 
at  meeting  me.  He  had  probably  expected  to  do  so, 
for  he  said  '  good-evening'  in  an  easy  tone,  and  then 
asked  how  Mrs.  Henderson  was,  and  on  hearing  that 
she  had  been  sleeping  for  some  time  was  about  to  turn 
away,  but  seemed  suddenly  to  change  his  mind. 

" '  May  I  come  in  for  a  few  moments,  Miss  Arkwright  ?' 
he  asked.  I  am  seldom  uncertain  in  my  speech  or 
actions,  but  I  am  tired  to-night,  and  perhaps  just  a  little 
nervous  from  the  excitement  of  the  last  two  days.  I 
am  conscious  that  I  hesitated. 

" '  It  will  only  be  for  a  moment'  said  Millard,  gently. 
He  has  too  much  generosity  to  have  dreamed  of  taking 
advantage  of  the  position  in  which  I  found  myself,  and 
yet  why  did  he  ask  to  come  in  ?  These  conflicting 
thoughts  which  were  in  my  mind  could  perhaps  be  read 
in  my  face.  Lieutenant  Henderson  did  not  sit  dov/n. 
He  advanced  a  step  or  two  into  the  room,  and  some- 
thing in  his  face  recalled  the  old  feeling  of  faith  and 
reliance  that  carried  me  back  for  more  than  seven 
years. 

"  He  said,  '  I  want  to  beg  your  pardon  very  humbly 
for  my  ignoble  conduct  a  few  nights  ago."  I  made  a 
haughty  gesture  which  he  quite  well  understood.  '  I 
am  not  going  to  refer  any  further  to  that  conversation, 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  IO; 

either  now  or  ever/  he  went  on,  'but  only  to  thank 
you  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  for  returning  good  for 
evil.  Your  great  kindness  to  my  dear  wife,  and  to  me, 
through  her,  will  not  be  forgotten  by  her  or  by  me.' 
His  voice  trembled  a  little  with  the  strength  of  his  feel- 
ing, but  his  eyes  looked  out  at  me  as  in  long-past  days, 
with  such  a  straightforward,  manly  gaze  as  filled  me  with 
glad  hope  for  the  future.  Could  it  be  that  after  these 
years  of  separation  and  misery  we  were  once  more  to 
lead  our  lives  near  together,  even  to  help  one  another, 
in  all  honor  and  honesty  ?  Were  we  to  be  friends  in  the 
true  sense  of  the  word,  to  trust  and  be  trusted,  to  share 
each  other's  burdens  when  very  heavy,  and  to  enjoy  the 
consciousness  of  each  other's  sympathy,  without  wrong 
to  either?  The  long  days  and  nights  of  the  future, 
which  I  had  grown  to  dread,  measuring  them  by  the 
lonely  hours  through  which  I  have  already  lived,  were 
suddenly  illumined  with  a  strong,  new  hope,  but  still  I 
hesitated. 

" '  Can  I  trust  you  ?'  I  asked  at  last. 

" '  You  can  trust  me  now/  he  said,  '  for  I  will  make  it 
one  object  of  my  life  to  deserve  your  trust ;  and  it  may 
not  be  too  much  to  hope  that  the  time  will  come  when  I 
can  help  you.' 

"  '  Would  you  let  me  help  you  as  a  true  friend  may/ 
he  went  on  earnestly,  '  if  you  should  need  my  help  ?' 

" '  1  should  accept  your  friendship  as  a  gift  from 
heaven/  I  said  with  fervor. 

"  What  further  passed  I  can  hardly  recall.  It  was  but 
a  word  or  two ;  then  I  laid  my  hand  in  his  and  he  was 
gone.  I  went  at  once  to  my  room.  It  is  the  same  one 
which  I  used  to  sleep  in  years  ago,  when  I  first  met  Mil- 
lard  at  Fernwood.  I  have  not  prayed  for  a  long  while, 
but  I  flung  myself  on  my  knees  and  thanked  God  for 
this  great,  unlooked-for  boon  which  he  had  granted  to 
me  out  of  the  wreck  and  waste  of  my  past  life.  Some- 
how, I  feel  renewed  in  strength,  and  almost  happy, — not 
as  I  was  in  my  youth,  but  in  a  more  quiet,  I  had  almost 
written  a  more  solid,  way.  It  seems  to  me  that  this  bright 


108  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

gleam  of  hope  will  stay  with  me ;  and  should  it  not, — 
should  clouds  and  darkness  come  again, — at  least  I  shall 
have  the  memory  of  it.  Nothing  can  take  that  from  me." 


JOURNAL   CONTINUED TWO    DAYS    LATER. 

"  I  went  to-day,  for  the  first  time  since  she  has  been 
conscious,  to  Mrs.  Henderson's  room.  (How  odd  to 
call  it  so,  when  it  has  been  mine  since  my  aunt's  death !) 
She  lay  ?.s  if  asleep,  with  half-closed  eyes.  The  fever 
has  left  her,  but  she  is  very  weak.  I  had  been  for  a 
walk  to  the  village,  and  intentionally  kept  on  my  hat  and 
jacket,  so  as  to  follow  out  Dr.  Danforth's  suggestion  of 
coming  in  as  a  neighbor  at  first,  since  she  still  imagines 
that  the  cottage  belongs  to  old  Marjory.  I  knocked  on 
the  partly-open  door  ;  she  called  '  Come  in,'  faintly,  and 
I  entered  with  a  bunch  of  lilies-of-the-valley  in  my  hand, 
but  very  quietly,  explaining  that  I  lived  near,  and  had 
come  to  ask  if  there  were  anything  I  could  do  for  her, 
being  sorry  to  hear  of  her  'illness,' — we  never  say 
accident,  as  we  are  not  sure  how  much  she  remembers 
about  it.  She  started,  and  looked  at  me  rather  strangely. 

" '  Thank  you,  I  do  not  think  that  there  is  anything 
you  can  do  for  me,'  she  said,  coldly. 

" '  Can  I  not  cheer  you  a  little,  and  would  you  not 
like  these  flowers  ?'  I  inquired. 

"  She  held  out  her  hand  for  the  lilies,  without  withdraw- 
ing her  eyes  from  my  face. 

ft '  Are  you  Miss  Arkwright  ?'  she  asked,  slowly. 

"  I  answered  in  the  affirmative,  and  sat  down  beside  her 
as  I  did  so.  I  was  differently  dressed  from  the  day  of 
the  accident,  and  had  not  been  sure  that  she  would 
know  me. 

'Would  you  like  me  to  stay  and  talk  to  you  a 
little  while  ?'  I  asked,  '  or  would  you  rather  that  I 
went  now,  and  came  some  other  day,  when  you  are 
feeling  stronger?' 

'  1  think  I  should  like  you  to  stay,'  she  said,  after  a 
slight  pause  of  indecision.  I  could  not  help  fancying 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  109 

that  she  would  rather  that  I  did  not,  and  I  could  not 
bear  to  force  myself  upon  her ;  but  I  felt  that  it  would 
not  be  wise  to  yield  to  the  impulse  to  go.  The  ice  was 
broken,  and  it  would  be  best  to  plunge  in :  so  I  began  to 
tell  her  about  all  the  little  incidents  which  had  happened 
in  the  neighborhood  that  might  possibly  interest  and 
amuse  her.  It  was  a  new  role  for  me,  that  of  a  village 
gossip,  but  it  was  probably  a  wholesome  exercise  of  my 
rather  rusty  faculty  of  being  entertaining,  and  the  knowl- 
edge that  Mrs.  Henderson,  although  unconsciously,  was 
my  guest,  helped  in  this. 

"  I  was  rewarded  for  the  unwonted  effort  I  made  by  a 
gradual  relaxing  of  the  dulness  and  hardness  of  the 
expression  which  had  greeted  me,  and  finally  by  a  trem- 
ulous smile,  with  which,  when  I  rose  to  go,  she  thanked 
me  for  my  visit  and  for  the  flowers  I  had  brought.  She 
seemed  very  tired,  so  I  called  her  maid  to  get  her  some- 
thing, and  then  went  through  the  farce  of  walking  sol- 
emnly down-stairs  and  out  on  the  veranda  before  stealing 

softly  up  again  past  her  door  to  my  little  attic  chamber." 
#          #*          ##          #          *         # 

Every  morning  now  little  Wilfred  and  his  papa  would 
ride  together  to  the  village  and  stop  at  Miss  Arkwright's 
cottage,  and  every  morning  the  same  answer  to  their 
inquiry  would  come  from  old  Marjory,  "  Mrs.  Hender- 
son is  doing  well,  sir,  but  the  doctor  h'insists  as  'ow  she 
ought  not  to  'ave  any  h'excitement  whath'ever,"  with  a 
glance  at  Wilfred  and  a  stiff  little  courtesy  to  his  father. 

Old  Marjory,  indeed,  was  long  unused  to  children,  and 
always  inclined  to  think  them  troublesome,  while  even 
the  doctor,  having  been  a  witness  of  the  weakness  caused 
by  Mrs.  Henderson's  agitation  the  last  time  she  had  seen 
the  boy,  when  her  husband  chanced  to  mention  their 
few  minutes'  talk  with  Mr.  Ledyard,  had  gathered  the 
impression  that  the  excitement  of  seeing  Wilfred  and  his 
father  together  was  entirely  to  blame  for  it,  and  had  given 
strict  orders  against  his  being  again  admitted,  which  the 
vigilant  Marjory  was  determined  to  carry  out. 

So  Lieutenant  Henderson  would  tell  the  little  fellow 


1 10  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

to  "  ride  on  to  the  post-office  with  Malachi  and  get  the 
letters,"  and,  disappearing  from  Wilfred's  eager  view, 
would  be  shown  by  old  Marjory  to  the  sick-chamber. 

Posey  seemed  very  grateful  for  her  husband's  visits. 
They  did  not  say  much  to  one  another,  but  he  sat  beside 
her  and  held  her  hand  with  more  tenderness  than  he  had 
ever  before  shown,  and  she  felt  in  a  dim,  inexplicable  way 
that  there  was  a  new  bond  forging  between  them.  She 
did  not  expect  him  to  talk  much,  although  it  was  evident 
that  his  mind  was  busy  over  schemes  which  interested 
him  deeply.  It  was  Posey  herself  who  had  always  been 
the  talker,  and,  like  most  people  who  love  the  sound 
of  their  own  voices,  was  not  a  very  good  listener.  She 
read  little,  and  therefore  talked  principally  of  people 
and  their  affairs,  about  which  she  was  always  ready  to 
speculate  if  she  did  not  know.  In  fact,  when  she  was 
well  she  was  inclined  to  be  communicative  on  all  subjects 
except  the  few  with  regard  to  which  she  chose  to  keep 
her  own  counsel,  but  there  was  no  one  who  understood 
this  better  than  she  did.  There  were  periods  of  her  life 
to  which  she  never  referred,  persons  whose  names  she 
never  mentioned,  and  often  when  she  seemed  to  seek 
company  merely  because  she  hated  to  be  alone,  or  to 
talk  only  for  the  sake  of  talking,  she  managed  to  elicit 
exactly  the  information  she  wanted  to  obtain,  while 
seeming  careless  as  to  what  she  said  or  what  was  said 
to  her. 

After  the  untoward  chance  of  Miss  Arkwright's  dwell- 
ing being  so  near  their  country  home  that  it  was  impos- 
sible that  she  and  her  husband  should  avoid  such  meet- 
ings as  had  happened  had  been  established  as  a  fact  in 
the  mind  of  Mrs.  Millard  Henderson,  she  was  not  unpre- 
pared to  receive  a  visit  of  neighborly  solicitude  from 
her  old  rival  as  a  consequence  of  her  accident,  and  was 
even  willing  to  accept  her  kind  inquiries  with  the  grace- 
ful condescension  due  to  the  superior  advantages  of  hei 
present  worldly  position ;  but  when  the  fact  was  cau- 
tiously made  known  to  her  by  Dr.  Danforth  that  she 
was  the  recipient  of  Miss  Arkwright's  generous  hos- 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  Ill 

pitality  it  undoubtedly  caused  a  shock  to  her  compla- 
cency. 

She  sent  a  message  at  once  to  Cynthia  to  ask  if  she 
would  come  to  her,  and  went  through  the  form  of  thank- 
ing her  very  punctiliously,  if  a  trifle  coldly,  apologizing 
at  the  same  time  for  the  inconvenience  which  she  must 
have  caused. 

Cynthia  had  too  great  pride  herself  not  to  understand 
and  sympathize  with  the  struggle  which  she  saw  going 
on  in  Posey's  complex  nature,  and  received  her  thanks 
with  so  much  sweetness  and  gentle  dignity  that  Mrs. 
Henderson  lost  the  feeling  of  being  humiliated,  and 
came  by  degrees  to  show  more  gratitude  than  she  had 
ever  before  exhibited  since  by  her  own  rash  wilfulness 
she  had  cast  off  Mrs.  Pelham's  protection,  as  a  girl,  and 
defied  the  world.  Indeed,  as  time  went  on  this  feeling 
changed  to  one  of  trustfulness  and  dependence,  which 
could  have  been  due  to  no  cause  other  than  an  uncon- 
fessed  consciousness  of  something  in  Cynthia's  character 
which  dominated  her,  compelling  confidence  and  respect. 

Often  she  would  despatch  a  message  through  old 
Marjory  begging  Miss  Arkwright  to  come  and  sit  with 
her,  during  the  long  hours  of  her  convalescence,  and,  the 
request  being  granted,  would  pour  forth  a  perfect  stream 
of  half-formed  opinion,  inquiry,  or  conjecture  concerning 
any  bits  of  local  information  which  Cynthia  might  be 
able  to  impart.  She  was  especially  interested  in  all  that 
concerned  the  new  clergyman,  as  it  appeared.  Her  hus- 
band wanted  her  to  ask  him  to  dinner,  she  said,  when 
she  grew  stronger  and  was  back  again  at  Fernwood,  so 
she  would  like  to  know  what  kind  of  a  man  he  was. 
When  had  he  come  to  Dundaff?  Where  had  he  lived 
before  that?  Did  Cynthia  not  know?  Could  it  have 
been  somewhere  in  the  West,  or  was  it  in  New  York, 
did  she  think?  How  old  a  man  did  he  seem  to  be? 
Millard  had  said  he  was  very  handsome.  Did  Cynthia 
think  him  handsome  ? 

Sometimes  she  hardly  waited  to  hear  the  answers  to 
these  questions.  She  seldom  seemed  to  heed  them,  and 


112  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

if  Miss  Arkwright  did  not  know  or  did  not  feel  inclined 
to  commit  herself,  she  only  found  it  necessary  to  respond 
by  a  shake  of  the  head  or  a  kindly  smile ;  but  Cynthia 
was  sincerely  glad  of  the  easy,  cordial  relations  which 
were  springing  up  between  herself  and  Mrs.  Henderson, 
and  did  all  in  her  power  to  foster  the  pleasant  feeling 
thus  created 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

ON  the  following  Tuesday  Richard  Ledyard  remem- 
bered his  promise  of  a  visit  to  Mrs.  and  Miss  Betterton. 
It  is  needless  to  say  that  he  did  not  belong  to  the  class 
of  clergymen  to  whom  dallying  over  a  cup  of  afternoon 
tea  came  naturally,  and  it  required  some  effort  to  force 
himself  into  a  fitting  frame  of  mind  for  a  society  call. 
He  would  much  have  preferred  a  ten-mile  walk  or  a 
row  up  the  river,  but  he  felt  that  to  gain  the  confidence 
of  his  congregation  it  was  well  to  mingle  with  them 
when  he  had  the  opportunity,  and  there  was  a  dinner  visit 
to  pay  to  Mrs.  Betterton,  whose  exacting  sensitiveness 
with  regard  to  such  matters  was  proverbial,  to  say 
nothing  of  his  having  given  his  promise  to  her  daughter. 

The  walk  of  two  miles  from  Dundaff  was  nothing  to 
him  in  point  of  distance,  but  as  it  chanced  to  be  along 
a  dusty  turnpike,  and  the  sun  was  especially  hot  on  this 
afternoon  in  early  May,  he^  was  glad  when  he  reached 
the  shelter  of  the  two  chestnut-trees  between  which 
stood  the  gilded  wrought-iron  gate  of  Camelot.  The 
gate  was  very  grand  and  very  new-looking,  like  every- 
thing else  about  the  place  except  the  two  old  chestnuts. 

The  visit  was  not  quite  so  formidable  as  he  expected. 
He  found  Mrs.  and  Miss  Betterton  both  receiving,  to  be 
sure,  and  had  to  undergo  a  searching  examination  from 
the  former  lady  as  to  why  he  had  not  been  to  call  on 
her  before,  and  what  he  knew  about  Mrs.  Henderson's 
accident,  and  whether  Dr.  Danforth  thought  there  were 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  113 

any  chance  of  her  head  being  affected  if  she  recovered, 
and  how  Miss  Arkwright  had  borne  the  invasion  of  her 
privacy  for  such  a  cause.  To  all  of  which  questions 
Ledyard's  answers  were  singularly  non-committal ;  but 
then,  to  his  great  relief,  Mrs.  Betterton's  attention  was 
claimed  by  the  wife  of  the  chief  grocer  of  Dundaff,  one 
of  his  vestrymen,  and  another  of  his  most  influential 
parishioners,  Miss  Platt,  the  little  spinster  milliner,  who 
was  generally  understood  to  be  a  lady  who  had  seen 
better  days,  who  knew  the  world  and  the  wicked  ways 
of  mankind,  and  whose  tongue  was  almost  as  much 
dreaded  by  her  neighbors  for  its  sharpness  as  that  of 
Mrs.  Betterton  for  its  volubility.  Richard  had  happily 
escaped  to  the  side  of  Miss  Betterton,  but  had  inter- 
changed barely  a  word  or  two  with  that  young  lady 
when  she  was  obliged  to  turn  to  another  new  arrival, — 
the  son  of  a  neighboring  rich  farmer,  who  evidently 
admired  Miss  Florence.  Ledyard  was  at  leisure  to 
drink  the  cup  of  tea  with  which  his  younger  hostess 
had  provided  him  and  look  about  him  thoughtfully. 
He  perceived  that  both  she  and  her  mother  were  very 
grandly  dressed, — much  too  much  so  for  the  occasion, — 
that  the  room  was  furnished  in  yellow  satin,  and  lined 
with  gilt-framed  mirrors  in  a  manner  which  was  sin- 
gularly at  variance  with  his  ideas  of  comfort  in  a  country 
home ;  but  his  further  reflections  were  cut  short  by  the 
sudden  apparition  of  a  girlish  figure  in  one  of  the  long 
windows  that  opened  into  the  garden  at  the  back  of  the 
house.  A  fair  young  woman,  very  simply  clad  in  pale- 
blue  muslin,  may  not  seem  like  a  startling  or  mysterious 
object,  but  this  one  was  in  such  marked  contrast  to 
everything  about  her,  that  Ledyard  was  filled  with 
wonder  when  she  glided  in  and  was  accosted  affection- 
ately by  Miss  Florence  Betterton. 

"  How  late  you  are,  Nathalie  !  I  was  just  thinking  of 
going  to  see  if  anything  had  happened.  Let  me  intro- 
duce to  you,"  etc.,  etc.  A  long  string  of  presentations  fol- 
lowed, in  the  midst  of  which  Ledyard  bowed,  hearing  his 
own  name,  but  he  failed  to  catch  that  of  the  stranger,  who 
k  10* 


H4  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

simply  included  him  in  the  graceful  inclination  and 
sweet  smile  with  which  the  whole  room-full  of  people 
were  greeted.  It  was  evident  that  the  girl  was  staying 
in  the  house,  and  an  honored  guest,  from  the  almost  ob- 
sequious manner  towards  her  of  Mr.  Betterton,  the 
father,  and  the  half-patronizing  attention  bestowed  on 
her  by  Tom  Betterton,  the  promising  son,  who  entered 
the  room  with  his  parent  at  this  moment,  and,  after  a 
brief  survey  of  the  other  guests,  began  devoting  him 
self  to  the  new-comer.  She  did  not  repel  his  advances, 
although  Ledyard  fancied  that  the  manner  of  them  was 
not  agreeable  to  her,  but  received  them  with  the  quiet 
air  of  one  accustomed  to  notice  and  attention.  She  was 
also  quite  at  her  ease,  he  could  see,  beneath  the  curious 
glances  of  the  village  ladies,  and  completely  ignored  the 
loud  aside  in  which  Mrs.  Betterton  was  satisfying  the 
whispered  inquiries  of  Miss  Platt,  who  seemed  very 
curious  indeed. 

"  School  friend  of  Florry's — finished  abroad — every  ac- 
complishment"— were  some  of  the  words  which  reached 
Richard's  ears ;  but  it  was  an  indefinable  air  of  dis- 
tinction, which  showed  itself  in  her  serene  unconscious- 
ness and  entire  absence  of  pretension  or  assumption, 
which  especially  attracted  him. 

Ledyard  had  good  blood  in  his  veins,  rejoicing  in  a 
long  line  of  respectable  ancestors,  although  he  was  wont 
to  believe  himself  too  proud  to  care  from  whence  he 
came,  but  he  suddenly  realized  that  the  result  which 
charmed  in  the  young  person  before  him  could  only 
have  been  obtained  by  the  combination  of  gentle  fore- 
bears with  the  cultivation  of  the  graces  of  life  from 
childhood,  as  they  are  understood  in  the  best  society. 

Here  his  observations  were  temporarily  interrupted 
by  a  no  less  important  event  than  the  entrance  of  the 
Rev.  Simon  Ashmead,  rector  of  St.  Luke's,  accompanied 
by  his  wife.  Mrs.  Ashmead,  in  an  olive-green  silk, 
made  a  special  impression  upon  Richard.  .  He  noted 
that  her  hair,  which,  like  her  skin,  was  a  pale  yellow, 
was  parted  over  her  forehead  in  the  style  of  a  Gothic 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  115 

arch, — "  one  would  say  in  imitation  of  the  church  door," 
he  thought,  with  unbecoming  levity.  Perhaps  the  occa- 
sion appealed  to  his  sense  of  humor  with  peculiar  em- 
phasis, as  it  was  evident  that  the  Ashmeads  had  come 
in  full  force  to  call  at  Camelot,  for  the  purpose  of  ascer- 
taining the  cause  of  the  defection  of  these  wealthy  mem- 
bers of  the  congregation  of  St.  Luke's  to  the  village 
church,  and  nothing  could  have  been  so  unexpected  to 
them  or  so  paralyzing  to  their  plan  of  action  as  to  find 
Mr.  Ledyard  already  in  the  field.  Soon  Mr.  Ashmead 
succeeded  in  drawing  near  to  Mrs.  Betterton,  however, 
and  insinuating  a  few  such  well-worn  bits  of  clerical  flat- 
tery as  he  had  at  command,  while  Mrs.  Ashmead 
claimed  a  cup  of  tea  at  the  fair  hands  of  Miss  Betterton. 
It  was  then,  with  rather  a  wicked  smile,  that  this  young 
lady  took  the  opportunity  of  introducing  to  her  Mr. 
Richard  Ledyard,  the  new  rector  of  St.  Andrew's,  giving 
him  his  full  name  and  title.  He  was  amused  at  her  spirit 
in  thus  taking  the  opportunity  to  present  her  new  rector 
to  the  wife  of  her  old  one.  He  had  done  his  duty  towards 
Mrs.  Ashmead  and  provided  her  with  tea  and  toast, 
when  his  eye  lighted  on  poor  Mr.  Betterton,  who  seemed 
not  only  much  embarrassed  at  entering  his  own  drawing- 
room,  but  was  further  discomfited,  almost  to  the  point 
of  desperation,  by  the  concerted  attack  of  Mrs.  Duffy 
and  Miss  Platt,  who  fell  upon  him  as  he  did  so.  His 
confusion  was  so  great  that  Ledyard  took  pity  on  him 
and  came  to  the  rescue,  with  the  happy  result  of  the 
two  ladies  combining  upon  him,  and  continuing  to  throw 
backwards  and  forwards  the  ball  of  conversation  in  the 
most  lively  and  engaging  manner,  while  Tom  Betterton 
and  the  young  farmer  were  convulsed  with  laughter  over 
the  exaggerated  shadow  of  Miss  Platt's  waving  plume, 
which  bent  and  coquetted  at  every  motion  of  the  milli- 
ner's animated  head.  When  Miss  Platt  and  company 
had  finally  taken  their  departure,  wreathed  in  smiles,  and 
Tom  Betterton  and  his  companion  had  recovered,  Led- 
yard, perceiving  that  these  young  men  were  vying  with 
one  another  in  their  attentions  to  the  pretty  stranger, 


Il6  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

thought  it  time  for  him  to  go  too,  but  Miss  Betterton  by 
no  means  shared  this  conviction.  She  had  not  asked 
Mr.  Ledyard  to  call  with  the  intention  of  having  him  talk 
to  every  one  else  in  the  room  and  of  interchanging  but 
three  or  four  words  with  him  herself.  She  had  had  a 
definite  object  in  urging  him  to  come  to  see  her,  and  she 
was  not  accustomed  to  being  thwarted  in  any  wish. 

Accordingly,  she  availed  herself  of  the  diversion 
caused  by  the  departure  of  her  other  guests  to  say  to 
him,  "  Do  you  not  think  that,  now  the  sun  is  low,  you 
would  like  to  take  a  turn  in  the  garden,  Mr.  Ledyard  ?" 

"  Very  pleasant,  indeed,"  he  replied,  and  noticed  that 
she  glanced  impulsively  in  the  direction  of  her  friend, 
who  responded  with  a  quick  look  of  comprehension. 

"  Would  you  not  like  to  go  into  the  garden  with  us, 
Nathalie  ?"  Miss  Florence  asked  at  once ;  but,  although 
the  young  girl  looked  up  a  little  wistfully,  she  smiled 
and  shook  her  head,  at  which  Ledyard  experienced  a 
vague  sense  of  disappointment.  He  would  have  liked 
to  know  more  of  this  interesting  stranger,  but  made  an 
effort  to  concentrate  his  wandering  attention  on  his 
companion.  This  was  the  less  difficult  that  the  next 
moment  they  found  themselves  strolling  side  by  side 
down  a  very  straight  garden  path  planted  on  either  side 
with  a  stiff  but  fragrant  border  of  heliotrope  flanked  by 
scarlet  fish-geranium.  It  was  a  pleasant  contrast  to  the 
room  within. 

"  I  wanted  to  see  you  particularly,  Mr.  Ledyard,"  began 
Miss  Betterton,  "  because  I  want  you  to  tell  me  whether  I 
can  be  of  any  use  to  you  as  a  teacher  in  your  Sunday- 
school." 

Ledyard  colored  slightly.  "  You  are  very  kind,"  he 
said,  "  and  I  should  really  be  glad  of  your  help,  but 
the  truth  is  that  as  yet  there  are  very  few  scholars  in  the 
Sunday-school.  Miss  Platt  has  a  class,  you  know,  of 
the  daughters  of  the  villagers,  and  I  have  got  together  a 
number  of  the  young  men,  who  seem  to  take  an  interest 
in  learning  and  whom  I  teach  myself.  There  are  certain 
poor  children,  the  sons  and  daughters  of  the  people  who 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  1 1/ 

work  in  the  mills,  whom  I  should  like  of  all  things  to 
get  to  come  to  the  Sunday-school  if  I  only  could." 

He  glanced  sideways  at  his  companion,  to  see  how  she 
would  take  this  suggestion  of  helping  the  poorest  of 
the  poor. 

Evidently  Miss  Betterton  was  puzzled.  Her  idea  of  a 
Sunday-school  class  was  of  a  very  prim,  orderly  set  of 
young  people,  such  as  her  own  class  at  St.  Luke's, 
where  she  had  been  made  to  learn  her  catechism  regu- 
larly and  a  certain  number  of  verses  of  a  hymn,  and 
had  recited  them  side  by  side  with  Gertrude  Ashmead, 
in  rather  a  mechanical  way,  to  be  sure,  but  with  an 
atmosphere  about  them  of  the  highest  respectability. 
The  picture  which  Mr.  Ledyard's  last  remarks  sum- 
moned up,  of  a  number  of  ragged  dirty  little  beings 
whom  she  had  seen  playing  in  the  mud  about  the  factory 
buildings,  was  rather  a  contrast  to  this. 

"  Of  course  you  know  more  about  such  things  than  I 
do,  Mr.  Ledyard,"  she  said,  "  but  I  should  think  the  chil- 
dren would  have  to  go  to  school  first  before  it  would  be 
any  use  to  send  them  to  Sunday-school." 

"  And  suppose  that  they  work  in  the  factory  all  day, 
and  have  no  time  to  go  to  school  ?" 

"  Surely  the  children  do  not  work  in  the  factory?" 

"  They  do,  indeed,  many  of  them  from  the  time  they 
are  seven  or  eight  years  old." 

Miss  Betterton  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"  Then  I  should  think  the  best  thing  to  do  would  be 
to  teach  them  how  to  read  and  write  at  Sunday-school," 
she  said  at  last. 

"  I  quite  agree  with  you,"  said  Ledyard,  "as  to  that 
being  the  proper  way  to  begin.  One  might  try  to  min- 
gle a  little  spiritual  knowledge  too,  however,  with  this 
practical  information." 

"  I  see,"  responded  Miss  Florence,  laconically. 

It  was  evident  that  she  was  becoming  interested  in 
the  idea  of  these  children,  if  not  in  the  children  them- 
selves. 

"Florry!    Florry !"  shouted    Mrs.  Betterton  through 


Il8  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

the  drawing-room  window.  "  Come  here,  daughter ;  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Ashmead  are  going." 

"  I  only  wish  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ashmead  would  go," 
murmured  the  undutiful  Florence  below  her  breath.  It  so 
chanced  that  she  particularly  disliked  to  have  her  mother 
address  her  as  "  daughter,"  and  it  was  especially  irritating 
that  she  should  choose  this  opportunity  of  doing  so  be- 
fore Mr.  Ledyard,  and  also  should  interrupt  a  conversa- 
tion in  which  she  was  so  happily  engaged,  in  absorbing 
new  ideas. 

They  turned  their  footsteps  in  the  opposite  direction, 
but  there  was  still  the  length  of  the  garden  to  traverse 
before  reaching  the  house,  and  in  this  space  of  time  she 
managed  to  say,  "  I  want  to  help  you  in  any  way  I  can, 
Mr.  Ledyard,  because  I  am  sure  you  are  in  earnest  and 
really  mean  to  do  good.  I  know  I  am  rather  a  '  green 
hand  at  it,'  as  the  farmers  about  here  say,  but  I  should 
like  to  do  some  good  too." 

"  Thank  you,  Miss  Betterton,"  said  Richard.  "  Per- 
haps I  shall  have  an  opportunity  of  saying  a  word  to 
you  on  this  subject,  after  the  service,  of  a  Sunday  morn- 
ing; meanwhile,"  he  continued,  offering  her  his  hand 
with  a  smile, "  I  will  look  about  me  and  try  to  find  some- 
thing useful  which  you  can  do."  Then  he  bade  a  hasty 
farewell  to  Mrs.  Betterton  and  the  Ashmeads,  who  were 
all  standing  and  making  their  adieus,  looking  about  him 
the  while  for  the  young  lady  whom  Miss  Florence  had 
addressed  as  Nathalie. 

She  was  in  the  act  of  saying  good-by  to  the  young 
farmer,  who  was  evidently  so  far  smitten  with  her  charms 
as  to  own  a  divided  allegiance  between  Miss  Florence  and 
the  new-comer.  She  looked  past  him  towards  Ledyard 
as  he  made  his  bow,  and  for  the  first  time  Ledyard's 
eyes  met  hers  with  a  glance  which  was  only  half  inten- 
tional on  either  side.  He  was  conscious  of  a  shock  of 
pleasure  as  they  did  so,  which  was  as  inexplicable  to 
him  as  it  was  astonishing. 

He  was  confident,  however,  that  to  her  the  encounter 
was  no  such  matter  of  moment,  for  she  saluted  him  with 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  1 19 

an  air  of  cordial  courtesy  such  as  was  nothing  more  and 
nothing  less  than  befitted  an  inmate  of  the  house  in 
taking  leave  of  a  visitor.  Ledyard  just  returned  the 
bow,  and  hastened  from  the  room  apostrophizing  himself 
as  a  hopeful  idiot  for  the  sudden  constraint  which  came 
over  him  in  this  gracious  presence,  in  strong  contrast 
to  the  ease  and  self-possession  with  which  he  had  been 
conversing  with  Miss  Florence  Betterton. 


CHAPTER    XV. 

IT  was  more  than  a  week  later  before  little  Wilfred 
was  allowed  to  see  his  mamma  again. 

Mrs.  Henderson  was  so  far  recovered  as  to  be  propped 
up  in  a  huge  arm-chair,  covered  with  brown  leather, 
which  had  belonged  to  Cynthia's  grandmother,  the 
mother  of  the  late  Miss  Pinsley,  and  was  the  pride  of  old 
Marjory's  heart,  from  its  luxurious  capacity  and  enor- 
mous proportions.  Wilfred  had  once  been  taken  to  see 
a  show  of  trained  elephants  at  a  menagerie  in  Paris, 
where  the  animals  put  themselves  in  all  sorts  of  ex- 
traordinary positions,  and  it  may  have  been  due  to  this 
experience  that  the  great  chair  looked  to  his  excited 
fancy  like  a  benevolent  elephant  seated  on  its  haunches, 
with  its  large,  flap-like  ears  stretched  out  stiffly,  and  its 
huge  front  legs  extended  to  receive  the  invalid.  She  and 
her  hostess  were  sitting  together  in  the  cool,  old-fash- 
ioned bedroom,  and  having  been  told  that  he  might  go 
up  if  very  quiet  and  good,  Wilfred  crept  up-stairs  so 
softly  that  neither  of  the  two  ladies  heard  his  approach. 
Indeed,  they  were  both  equally  surprised  when  the  door 
opened  to  admit  the  father  and  son. 

Cynthia  rose  at  once,  and  was  about  to  leave  the  room, 
with  a  kind  word  to  the  boy  and  a  courteous  bend  of  her 
stately  head  to  Lieutenant  Henderson,  but  Posey  called 
her  back. 


120  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

"Wait,  wait,  Miss  Arkwright,"  she  cried;  "please  do 
not  go  without  seeing  my  little  boy.  Is  he  not  a  fine 
little  fellow  ?"  Her  tone  was  so  happy  and  proud,  and 
the  light  in  her  eyes  so  much  brighter  and  warmer  than 
any  which  he  could  before  remember,  that  the  lad  was 
delighted.  He  ran  towards  her  with  outstretched  arms, 
and  Cynthia  paused  to  see  mother  and  child  embrace, 
but  somehow  the  sight  was  disappointing.  Posey  put 
out  her  two  pretty  white  hands,  to  be  sure, — rendered 
even  whiter  and  more  delicately  moulded  in  appearance 
by  her  illness,  and  took  hold  of  Wilfred's  arms,  but 
she  only  drew  him  near  enough  to  imprint  a  light  kiss 
on  his  forehead  before  she  held  him  off  again  at  a  com- 
fortable distance  for  inspection,  while  her  eyes  dwelt  with 
satisfaction  on  his  •  fair,  curly  head  and  pure,  childish 
brow,  and  then  wandered  to  his  little  velvet  tunic. 

"That  new  tailoress  really  fits  Wilfred  very  well,"  she 
said,  reflectively,  to  her  husband.  "  I  am  so  glad  I  had 
two  of  these  dresses  made  for  him !  It  will  save  me 
a  great  deal  of  trouble  in  taking  or  sending  him  to 
town." 

Henderson,  who  had  just  come  from  the  post-office 
and  was  reading  his  letters  at  one  of  the  windows,  did 
not  seem  to  notice.  As  Cynthia  again  turned  towards 
the  door,  however,  it  was  his  voice  which  stopped  her. 

"  Please  do  not  go,  Miss  Arkwright,"  he  said,  earnestly. 
"  I  have  been  having  a  talk  with  my  partner,  Mr. 
Betterton,  about  some  plans  for  a  change  of  rules  in  the 
factory,  in  which  I  am  sure  you  will  be  interested.  Will 
you  not  sit  down  while  I  explain  them  to  you  and  Mrs. 
Henderson  ?" 

Posey  looked  at  her  husband  in  some  surprise.  "  I 
am  sure  I  do  not  know  what  Millard  is  going  to  tell  us 
about,"  she  said,  "but  do  sit  down,  Miss  Arkwright." 
She  released  Wilfred's  arms  as  she  spoke,  brushed  some 
dust  from  his  velvet  cap,  and  gave  him  another  kiss  on 
the  forehead. 

Henderson  only  answered  by  seating  himself  on  the 
other  side  of  his  wife,  and  laying  his  hand  on  the  arm  of 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  121 

her  chair  as  he  began  to  speak.  He  had,  indeed,  deter- 
mined that  he  would  try  to  take  her  more  into  his  life, 
and  see  if  it  would  not  be  possible  to  interest  her  in  that 
which  interested  him  most  keenly.  Fortunately  for  the 
success  of  this  first  attempt,  Posey  was  just  enough  sub- 
dued and  physically  depressed  by  the  weakening  reaction 
from  fever  not  to  be  in  a  humor  for  talking  herself,  while 
it  soothed  and  diverted  her  to  hear  her  husband's  voice, 
and  she  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  pay  any  especial 
attention  to  what  he  was  saying.  But  presently  she 
perceived  that  Cynthia  Arkwright,  who  had  consented 
to  reseat  herself  and  taken  little  Wilfred  on  her  knee, 
evidently  felt  such  an  intense  and  vital  interest  in  the 
new  order  of  things  to  be  instituted  in  the  mills  at  Dun- 
daff  as  quite  roused  her  up  to  the  importance  of  the 
changes  contemplated,  and  she  began  also  to  listen. 

"  It  is  but  an  experiment,  of  course,"  Henderson  was 
saying,  "  and  it  may  be  that  old  Betterton's  prophecies, 
and  not  my  hopes,  will  be  realized  ;  but  at  least  he  has 
consented  to  give  my  plan  a  fair  trial." 

"  And  your  plan,  briefly,  is  to  offer  the  employees  more 
time  to  themselves  and  have  a  more  graded  scale  of 
wages  ?"  asked  Cynthia,  thoughtfully. 

"  To  offer  them  more  time  in  case  they  earn  the  time," 
corrected  Henderson.  "  That  is  it  in  a  nutshell.  I  hope, 
from  the  manufacturer's  point  of  view,  that  one  part  of 
the  scheme  may  pay  for  the  other." 

"  But  you  do  not  propose  to  lower  any  of  the  wages, 
as  I  understand,"  proceeded  Cynthia. 

"  Certainly  not,  unless  I  would  begin  the  new  order 
of  things  by  causing  a  strike.  The  grading  is  to  be  up- 
wards." 

"  How,  then,  will  you  save  money  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  Millard,"  cried  Posey,  with  sudden  illumination, 
"  how  will  you  do  anything  but  lose  money  if  you  give 
all  the  people  more  wages  and  require  them  to  do  less 
work  ?" 

"  That  is  not  exactly  what  I  propose,"  said  Millard, 
emiling.  "  I  really  expect  them  to  do  more  work  in  the 

T  II 


122  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

end  in  less  time,  but  at  first  we  shall  lose.  I  have  pre- 
pared Betterton's  mind  for  that." 

"  In  other  words,"  said  Miss  Arkwright,  "  this  is  not  a. 
plan  devised  for  the  profit  of  the  manufacturer  so  much 
as  for  the  benefit  of  the  workman.  I  think  it  a  fine  idea 
whether  it  succeed  or  no." 

"  That  is  all  very  well,"  said  Mrs.  Henderson,  with 
unlooked-for  shrewdness,  "  but  to  lose  money  in  the 
manufactory  would  be  very  much  like  losing  money  in 
any  other  way." 

"  You  are  right,  my  dear,"  responded  her  husband, 
"  and  it  is  for  the  practicability  of  my  plan  that  I  am 
contending.  I  think,  as  I  have  said,  that  we  may  lose  at 
first,  but  that  our  loss  will  be  a  good  investment,  for 
soon  the  added  incentive  will,  if  I  am  not  mistaken, 
make  the  cleverer  workman  more  than  repay  to  us 
what  we  lose  by  the  stupider  or  less  ambitious." 

"  I  see  that  you  differ  from  most  persons  who  have 
studied  social  questions  with  a  view  to  improving  the 
condition  of  the  working  classes,"  said  Cynthia. 

"  How  do  you  think  that  I  differ  from  them  ?"  asked 
Henderson. 

"  Why,  in  the  superiority  you  admit  of  the  clever  over 
the  stupid  workman." 

"  Dear  me,  yes,"  said  Posey,  with  an  air  of  great  wis- 
dom, "  you  expect  the  clever  workman  to  be  so  very 
clever,  if  he  is  to  make  up  to  Mr.  Betterton  for  all  the 
money  you  lose." 

Millard  burst  out  laughing,  and  Cynthia  joined  irre- 
sistibly, while  Posey,  who  was  not  gifted  with  a  keen 
sense  of  humor,  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  at  first 
with  some  astonishment ;  then  realizing  that  her  last  re- 
mark had  been  taken  as  a  witticism  at  her  husband's  ex- 
pense, she  began  to  laugh  too,  dimpling  and  bridling  as 
she  did  so  with  evident  satisfaction  at  her  own  unex- 
pected brilliancy. 

"  It  certainly  is  a  common  tendency  of  most  of  the 
Socialists,  or  socialistic  schemes,  to  seek  to  level  natu- 
ral distinctions  of  character  or  ability  quite  as  much 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  12$ 

as  those  artificial  ones  which  are  the  outgrowth  of  cir- 
cumstance or  surrounding,"  said  Henderson,  turning 
again  to  Miss  Arkwright  as  he  resumed  the  graver 
theme  of  their  discourse. 

"  Yes,  their  only  remedy  for  injustice  is  enforced 
equality,"  she  answered, — "  a  sort  of  bed  of  Procrustes 
for  the  million." 

"  That  is  far  from  my  idea,"  he  said.  "  My  dream 
would  be  not  to  take  away  liberty,  but  to  increase  it,  to 
multiply  its  opportunities;  to  let  the  moral  qualities  of 
the  workman  tell  in  his  favor,  as  well  as  his  mental  gifts  ; 
to  secure  for  him  something  of  that  credit  and  power, 
in  proportion  to  his  integrity  and  ability,  which  con- 
stantly tend  to  make  the  rich  man  grow  richer." 

"  Rich  men  have  been  known  to  grow  poorer,"  said 
Posey,  solemnly. 

"  Yes,  and  poor  men  richer,"  replied  her  husband, 
smiling.  "  I  think  it  is  only  Mr.  Henry  George  who 
asserts  it  as  an  unvarying  fact  that  as  the  rich  man 
grows  richer  the  poor  man  grows  poorer.  It  has, 
nevertheless,  been  believed  by  many  thoughtful  men  that 
an  unfair  advantage,  a  grasping  after  undue  and  exorbi- 
tant profits  on  the  part  of  the  rich  man  is  often  the  cause 
of  defeat  and  failure,  which  involves  the  poor  as  in- 
evitably as  the  wife  and  children  of  the  poor  man  are 
reduced  to  starve  with  him.  I  think  the  mistake  has 
•been  in  confounding  the  natural  mathematical  advantage, 
if  one  may  call  it  so,  which  comes  to  the  rich  man  in  a 
certain  proportionally-increasing  ratio ;  that  is,  his  ac- 
quisition of  wealth  as  the  result  of  wise  foresight  with 
this  effort  to  gain  undue  advantage,  which  ought  to  lead 
to  failure  logically,  if  it  do  not  always  do  so.  To  my 
thinking,  the  man  who  grasps  the  one  loses  the  other, 
which  is  not  only  compounded  of  such  estimation  as  he 
may  gain  in  men's  eyes,  by  what  he  is  known  to  possess, 
but  of  how  wisely  he  is  apt  to  dispose  of  his  possessions, 
and  what  restraining  moral  influences  he  is  known  to 
recognize,  which  are  called  his  principles.  In  other 
words,  all  these  elements  go  to  make  up  what  is  com- 


124  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

prised  in  a  man's  credit,  and  money  alone,  without  the 
other  two  ingredients  of  wisdom  and  integrity,  will  sel- 
dom give  it  to  him,  and  can  never  keep  it  for  him." 

"  I  see,"  said  Cynthia.  "  And  you  think  perhaps  two 
of  these  qualities, — the  last  two, — wisdom  and  integrity, 
belong  quite  as  frequently  to  the  poor  man  as  to  the  rich." 

"  That  is  my  exact  thought." 

"  But  how  can  you  give  him  the  advantage  of  them  ?" 

"That  is  the  problem  which  I  am  endeavoring  to 
solve.  I  see  no  way  to  it  except  by  money.  I  think  I 
must  first  offer  him  an  incentive,  which  will  enable  me 
to  discover  his  ability  and  power  of  self-denial,  and  I 
must  then  give  him  a  proportionate  share  of  the  result 
of  his  voluntary  labor,  with  opportunity  to  invest  his 
small  profit  to  advantage." 

"  Your  plan  of  improvement  tends,  then,  towards  co- 
operation?" 

"  Not  cooperation  in  the  sense  of  a  common  capital 
and  a  mutual  right  to  control  those  parts  of  the  busi- 
ness which  experience  and  leisure  to  look  about  him 
make  the  capitalist  much  better  able  to  direct  than 
the  cleverest  of  his  workmen  is  likely  to  become  capa- 
ble of  doing ;  but  a  cooperation  between  the  employer 
and  the  employed,  which  can  only  be  brought  about  by 
the  establishment  of  mutual  confidence  and  a  common 
interest." 

"  And  what  are  you  going  to  do  for  the  little  boys 
and  little  girls  who  work  at  the  factory,  papa  ?"  asked  a 
childish  voice. 

Everybody  had  forgotten  Wilfred  for  the  time,  but  it 
now  appeared  that,  from  his  own  point  of  view,  he  was 
much  interested  in  the  subject. 

"  What  would  you  like  to  do  for  them,  Wilfred  ?"  in- 
quired his  father. 

"  I  should  like  to  ask  them  to  come  and  play  with 
me  at  Fernwood,"  he  replied,  after  a  short  pause  for 
reflection,  "  and  give  them  all  a  good  dinner." 

"Ask  your  mamma  if  you  may  do  that,"  replied 
Henderson,  in  a  mischievous  tone. 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  I2f, 

"  May  I,  mamma  ?"    inquired  Wilfred,  earnestly. 

"  All  the  children  in  the  factories,  child  !  Why,  there 
are  four  or  five  hundred  !"  cried  his  mother,  with  conster- 
nation. 

"  Hardly  so  many  as  that,  I  think,"  remarked  Millard, 
in  an  amused  tone. 

"  Well,  more  than  a  hundred  at  any  rate,  are  there 
not,  Miss  Arkwright?  I  could  not  think  of  such  a 
thing.  It  would  be  a  great  deal  too  much  for  me." 

"  How  many  boys  and  girls  are  there,  Miss  Ark- 
wright ?"  asked  Wilfred. 

"  I  should  think  there  were  more  than  a  hundred," 
said  Cynthia,  looking  gently  at  the  boy,  who  was  still 
on  her  knee. 

"  Do  you  think  it  would  be  too  much  for  you  when 
you  are  quite  well  again,  dear  mamma  ?"  pleaded  Wil- 
fred. 

"  Do  not  tease  mamma  now,  dear,"  admonished  his 
father.  "  Remember  how  ill  she  has  been." 

"  But  you  told  me  to  ask  her  !"  cried  Wilfred,  re- 
proachfully. 

"  I  was  only  in  fun ;  but  there  was  no  harm  in  asking 
her  once"  said  Henderson.  Then  seeing  the  look  of 
keen  disappointment  in  the  boy's  face,  he  added,  "  Per- 
haps in  time  mamma  may  be  so  well  that  she  will  her- 
self propose  asking  the  factory  children  to  come  to 
Fernwood ;  and  if  she  should,  they  shall  all  have  a  good 
dinner,  I  promise  you." 

Wilfred  beamed  all  over  at  this  delightful  prospect, 
and  looked  up  shyly  at  Miss  Arkwright  for  the  sympa- 
thy which  he  instinctively  felt  was  his.  He  was  glad 
to  be  led  away  to  the  garden  after  this,  leaving  his 
father  and  mother  together,  while  he  and  Cynthia  spent 
a  happy  half-hour  among  the  flowers,  until  Henderson 
came  to  carry  him  off. 

"  I  wish  I  could  stay  with  Miss  Arkwright  always, 
papa.  Just  look  at  the  roses  she  has  given  me !" 

"  And  yet  you  are  not  satisfied  ?"  asked  his  father, 
with  an  odd  intonation.  He  held  out  his  hand  to  the 

ir* 


126  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

child  and  drew  him  closer,  gazing  sadly  and  searchingly 
into  his  little  eager  face. 

Cynthia  looked  at  them  both. 

"  What  have  you  or  I  done,  to  deserve  to  live  with 
Miss  Arkwright  ?"  Millard  asked  the  boy ;  and  then 
with  a  smile  and  sudden  change  of  expression  which 
Wilfred  could  as  little  understand,  he  added :  "  Are  we 
not  both  very  fortunate  to  be  allowed  to  live  near  her  ?" 

The  child  did  not  answer.  He  looked  from  his  father 
to  Cynthia,  who  was  hastily  turning  away,  and  he  fancied 
he  saw  a  mist  in  her  eyes,  as  of  unshed  tears. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

A  DAY  or  two  later,  making  his  usual  morning  visit, 
Henderson  found  his  wife  half  reclining  on  the  sofa  in 
Miss  Arkwright's  little  parlor. 

"  Why,  this  is  delightful !"  he  exclaimed.  "  How  did 
you  get  down-stairs  ?" 

"  Dr.  Danforth  brought  me  down,"  she  said,  with  a 
little  toss  of  her  head.  "  He  is  very  good  to  me,  I 
assure  you." 

"  Good  to  you  !  I  should  think  he  was ;  but  nothing 
to  compare  to  how  good  he  is  to  me  in  getting  you 
better,"  replied  Millard,  cheerily.  "  Here  is  a  letter,"  he 
added,  "  which  came  for  you  day  before  yesterday.  I 
was  a  little  afraid  to  give  it  to  you  then,  as  the  doctor 
had  forbidden  all  excitement,  because  I  did  not  know 
the  handwriting." 

Posey,  who  had  not  many  correspondents,  looked 
languidly  at  the  address,  then  suddenly  holding  it  closer, 
exclaimed,  "  I  think  it  is  from  my  mother !"  She  opened 
the  envelope  and  hastily  read  its  contents,  growing 
strangely  pale  as  she  did  so. 

"  What  is  it,  dear  ?     Not  bad  news,  I  hope  ?" 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  it  is  from  my  mother.     She  had  not 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  I2/ 

heard  of  our  return,  it  appears,  until  she  saw  the  account 
of  my  accident  in  the  paper.  She  seems  much  distressed, 
and  oh,  she  is  very  anxious  to  see  me !" 

"  And — your  father  ?"  asked  Henderson,  gravely. 

"  My  mother  writes  to  tell  me  of  my  father's  death, 
more  than  a  year  ago,"  she  answered,  sadly. 

"  Poor  child !     Poor  Posey." 

"  Do  not  pity  me  for  that,"  she  said,  her  face  hard- 
ening as  she  spoke.  "  I  am  not  sorry  for  his  death, 
for  he  it  was  who  refused  to  allow  my  mother  to  have 
anything  to  do  with  me, — no,  not  even  to  speak  my 
name !"  she  cried  with  bitterness. 

"  Have  you  had  no  communication  with  her  in  all  these 
years  ?"  asked  Henderson.  "  When  did  you  last  see  her  ?" 

His  wife's  head  was  half  turned  from  him.  She  did 
not  answer  for  a  moment.  Then  she  said,  "  I  saw  her 
last  in  Baltimore,  a  long  while  ago.  She  was  with  me 
at — that  is,  before  my  marriage." 

"  At  the  time  of  our  marriage  ?  No,  surely  not. 
You  forget  that  I  have  never  seen  your  mother." 

"  I  said  before  our  marriage, — but  really,  Millard,  it 
does  not  matter  now, — and  you — we  were  married  in 
New  York." 

"  It  agitates  you  to  speak  of  it.  I  can  easily  under- 
stand that,  when  you  were  so  unkindly  treated ;  why,  I 
recollect  your  telling  me  that  even  the  letter  in  which 
you  announced  your  marriage  to  your  mother  was  sent 
back  to  you  unopened.  But  what  is  the  matter,  dear  ? 
You  look  faint.  This  excitement  has  been  too  much 
for  you.  Let  me  call  Teresa." 

He  was  hastening  to  the  door,  when  he  was  stopped 
by  an  imploring  glance  from  Posey. 

"  Do  not  leave  me !"  she  cried.  "  I  shall  soon  be 
better.  I  would  rather  not  have  any  one  called.  See, 
I  am  better  now."  He  poured  some  water  into  a  glass 
which  stood  beside  a  pitcher  on  a  stand  near  by,  after 
drinking  which  she  did  look  a  little  less  death-like. 

"  Do  not  let  us  talk  of  these  matters  any  more,"  said 
Henderson.  "  You  are  not  equal  to  it.  Wait  for  another 


128  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

day."  But  it  seemed  as  if  Posey  could  not  turn  her 
thoughts  from  the  subject.  She  clung  to  her  husband's 
hand,  looking  beseechingly  into  his  face  with  an  ex- 
pression which  he  could  not  understand.  "  What  is  it, 
Posey  ?"  he  asked,  gently.  "  Is  there  anything  which 
you  want  to  tell  me  ?" 

She  did  not  answer  directly,  but,  lowering  her  eyes, 
asked  in  her  turn, — 

"  When  did  you  last  see  your  friend  Granby  Neil  ?" 

Millard  started.  "  Poor  Neil !"  he  exclaimed  in  a  pained 
tone,  caused  partly  by  the  mention  of  his  dead  friend 
and  partly  by  a  memory  to  which  his  wife  could  have 
no  clue.  This  was  the  fact  that  a  slight  coldness  had 
grown  up  between  himself  and  Neil  in  consequence  of 
what  he  considered  the  officious  meddling  of  the  artist 
in  a  matter  which  in  no  way  concerned  him.  No  ex- 
planation had  taken  place  between  them.  Indeed,  Mil- 
lard had  reason  to  think  that  Neil  never  knew  of  the 
effect  which  his  well-meant  effort  to  gain  protection  for 
Posey  had  had  on  the  life  of  Henderson  himself. 

A  train  of  thought  connected  with  this  saddest,  darkest 
period  of  his  life  was  unfortunately  set  in  motion  by  his 
wife's  unexpected  question,  and  he  gazed  down  at  her 
for  some  moments,  without  remembering  that  he  had 
not  answered  it,  with  a  stern  fixity  which  seemed  to 
make  her  very  heart  stand  still.  At  last  he  roused 
himself  to  notice  that  she  had  turned  away  from  him 
with  a  sort  of  sob  of  suppressed  nervousness  and  covered 
her  face  with  her  hands. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  coldly.  "  I  think  you 
asked  me  something?  Oh,  I  recollect.  You  wanted 
to  know  when  I  last  saw  Mr.  Granby  Neil  ?  But,  my 
dear,  of  what  possible  interest  can  that  be  to  you  ?" 
His  whole  tone  was  changed  by  the  imperious  absorp- 
tion of  the  thoughts  which  had  been  awakened.  "  I 
can  tell  you,"  he  went  on,  "  that  when  I  heard  the  news 
of  my  friend's  death  I  was  doubly  shocked,  because  we 
had  not  seen  one  another  for  a  long  while,  owing  to  an 
incident  which  led  to  a  slight  estrangement.  I  do  not 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  I2g 

care  to  be  questioned  with  regard  to  this  incident,  but 
wiU  only  say  that  had  my  friend  lived  I  should  not  have 
allowed  it  to  interfere  with  the  intimacy  between  us.  I 
remember  that  I  was  on  my  way  to  New  York,  by  the 
bye,  when  I  heard  of  Neil's  death.  Did  I  not  tell  you 
of  it,  and  that  it  was  long  since  I  had  seen  him,  when  I 
first  met  you  there?" 

"  You  did,  indeed.  I  have  not  forgotten,"  replied 
Posey,  in  a  muffled  voice.  Her  face  was  still  buried  in 
her  hands. 

"  I  remember  how  much  you  seemed  to  feel  his  loss," 
continued  Millard,  more  gently,  "  and  that  it  was  a  chord 
of  sympathy  between  us."  His  voice  was  gradually 
losing  its  hard,  dry  tone  and  returning  to  the  tenderer 
modulation  to  which  she  had  become  accustomed  of 
late. 

"  To  go  back  to  the  subject  of  your  mother,  dear,"  he 
said  presently  :  "  how  did  it  happen  that  you  saw  her  in 
Baltimore  ?" 

Posey  shivered  a  little,  drew  away  her  hands,  and 
looked  searchingly  into  his  face,  but  no  longer  with  fear. 

"  My  mother  had  come  to  Baltimore  because  she 
heard  that  I  was  acting  there,"  she  said,  deliberately; 
"  that  was  how  I  saw  her ;  but  she  was  recalled  by  a 
peremptory  message  from  my  father.  She  has  not  had  a 
happy  life,  poor  mother  !" 

"  You  must  write  and  ask  her  to  come  to  you  now," 
said  Henderson,  kindly.  "  There  can  be  nothing  to  pre- 
vent it,  since  your  father  is  dead." 

"  You  forget,"  returned  Posey,  quickly,  "  that  she  has 
my  younger  brothers  and  sister  to  take  care  of.  There 
are  three  of  them,  and  they  are  not  yet  of  an  age  to  be 
left  to  themselves."  She  seemed  lost  in  perplexity  for 
five  or  six  moments.  At  last  she  said,  "  I  think,  Millard, 
when  I  am  well  enough,  I  should  like  to  go  and  see  my 
mother." 

"  Certainly,  dear.     We  will  both  go." 

"  And  Wilfred  ?     We  could  not  both  leave  him." 

"  Why  not  take  him  with  us  ?" 
i 


130  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

"  We  will  see,"  she  replied,  evasively.  "  If  you  are  so 
much  taken  up  with  these  plans  about  the  factory  and 
the  farm,  and  the  rest  of  it,  you  will  hardly  want  to  go 
away,  and  it  is  not  good  for  children  to  travel  in  warm 
weather ;  but  there  is  time  enough.  I  will  write  to  my 
mother  this  afternoon." 

Here  the  conversation  flagged,  and  Henderson  suc- 
ceeded in  persuading  his  wife  to  let  him  lift  her  in  his 
arms  and  carry  her  up-stairs.  No  serious  drawback  to 
her  recovery  was  caused  by  her  temporary  fatigue. 
She  continued  to  gain  strength  from  day  to  day,  and 
was  soon  able  to  sit  out  on  the  veranda,  then  to  take 
a  short  drive,  and  finally  was  driven  safely  home  to 
Fernwood.  Many  were  the  expressions  of  kindness 
and  gratitude  with  which  she  parted  from  Cynthia. 

Miss  Arkwright  moved  back  to  her  own  bedroom, 
and  things  for  her  resumed  their  old  order,  with  the  ex- 
ception that  she  was  less  rigid  in  her  seclusion.  The 
unconscious  influence  of  having  been  forced,  as  it  were, 
into  easy  natural  association  with  people  of  her  own 
class  had  done  much  to  break  her  habit  of  reserve. 

Dr.  Danforth  had  always  considered  himself  a  privi- 
leged character,  but  he  came  and  went  more  freely  than 
he  ever  had  done  before,  and  found  Miss  Arkwright 
more  evidently  glad  to  see  him.  They  had  heretofore 
been  friendly,  but  he  felt  that  they  had  now  more  inter- 
ests in  common. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE  change  in  Miss  Arkwright  was  also  felt  by  Led- 
yard,  who  now  did  not  hesitate  to  drop  in  on  her  of  a 
summer  evening  and  sit  talking  lazily  in  the  veranda  of 
her  cottage,  while  the  old  Scotch  retriever  came  and  laid 
his  head  confidingly  on  Richard's  knee,  and  the  grand- 
daughter of  Miss  Pinsley's  famous  yellow  cat  "  Amber" 
stole  softly  up  to  play  with  Neptune's  tail. 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  13! 

"  It  is  odd  that  '  Buttercup'  has  inherited  none  of  the 
animosity  of  old  Amber  towards  Neptune,"  said  Cyn- 
thia one  evening  that  they  were  sitting  thus  peacefully 
in  the  twilight.  "  I  can  remember  when  I  used  to  come 
here  as  a  school-girl  to  stay  with  my  aunt  that  Nep- 
tune and  Amber  were  on  the  worst  of  terms.  Clouded 
Amber  I  used  to  call  him,  for  he  was  always  growling 
like  a  thunder-storm." 

"  I  suppose  '  Buttercup'  has  been  better  brought  up," 
said  Ledyard ;  "  but,  remembering  your  feeling  about 
thunder-storms,  I  should  have  thought  you  would  have 
been  especially  attached  to  old  Amber;  and  there  is 
good  reason  for  his  reminding  you  of  such  a  storm, 
since  elektron,  from  which  your  favorite  electricity  was 
named,  is  the  Greek  name  for  amber.  By  the  bye,  have 
you  ever  forgiven  my  impertinence  in  venturing  to  speak 
to  you  as  I  did  the  day  we  took  that  ramble  ?" 

"  You  mean  the  day  we  went  to  the  Tarpeian  Rock  ?" 

"  Yes.  Do  you  not  remember  how  indignant  you 
were  with  me  for  venturing  to  think  that  I  had  rightly 
translated  your  thoughts  about  my  sermon  ?" 

"  I  do  not  remember  being  indignant  with  you  for 
that." 

"  Ah,  too  true !"  said  Richard ;  "  it  was  not  merely 
for  that.  I  intruded  unwarrantably  on  your  private 
domain.  You  must  have  thought  it  just  like  the  char- 
acter you  had  conceived  to  yourself  as  belonging  to 
me." 

"  No ;  I  thought  it  another  proof  of  your  honesty  and 
whole-heartedness,  which  for  a  moment  led  you  to 
forget  that  I  might  be  pained  by  what  you  said." 

"  My  punishment  was  severe  enough,  at  any  rate,"  he 
said,  coloring  hotly.  "  How  do  you  think  Actaeon  felt 
when  he  had  rashly  invaded  the  sacred  grove  of  Diana, 
and  the  goddess  fixed  her  angry  eyes  on  him  before  she 
flung  the  fatal  drops  which  changed  him  to  a  horned 
deer  ?" 

Cynthia  laughed  and  shook  her  head.  "  You  do  not 
know,  I  am  sure,"  she  said. 


132  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

"  Yes,  I  did,  and  do.  Could  you  not  see  that  I  was 
paralyzed  with  shame  as  well  as  fear  ?  Joking  apart," 
he  continued,  with  a  change  of  tone,  "  I  really  fancied 
that  you  felt  nothing  but  disdain  for  me  because  I  had 
ventured  to  pry  into  what  it  was  not  for  me  to  see. 
How  could  you  know  the  spirit  which  prompted  my 
rash  words  ?  Had  you  the  slightest  clue  to  the  knowl- 
edge which  I  had  almost  accidentally  acquired  of  the 
attitude  of  your  mind  towards  my  belief?  Indeed,  I 
have  never  ceased  to  wonder  at  the  impulse  which  in- 
duced you  to  come  that  once  to  my  church  and  give 
me  the  fleeting  view  of  your  inner  self  which  angered 
me  so  at  the  time." 

"  Take  care,  take  care,"  said  Cynthia,  turning  her  face 
away,  that  he  might  not  see  her  flush  and  grow  pale  by 
turns.  "  You  do  not  mean  to  trespass,  but  you  are  dan- 
gerously near  my  consecrated  grove  just  now." 

"  Am  I  ?  Forgive  me  !  But  you  will  not  misunder- 
stand me  now.  You  know  me  better  than  to  fancy  me 
a  victim  of  vulgar  curiosity.  In  fact,  I  am  going  to 
ask  you  to  tell  me  why  it  was  sad  to  you,  as  you  con- 
fessed it  was,  to  see  that  my  belief  was  warm  and  earn- 
est, the  first  time  you  heard  me  speak.  You  know  you 
half  promised  to  do  that,  and  I  really  think  you  owe  me 
so  much  by  way  of  reparation  for  the  compassion  you 
ventured  to  bestow  on  me  then." 

"  I  am  willing  to  try  to  tell  you,  if  you  wish  me  to  do 
so,"  she  answered,  very  gravely;  "but  it  is  all  a  matter 
of  feeling,  very  difficult  to  put  into  words.  You  would 
have  had  to  live  my  life  to  know  the  depth  of  sympathy 
I  feel  for  any  one  who  believes  and  with  whom  I  dare  not 
hope  that  the  comfort  of  believing  will  remain  always." 

"  You  fancy  that  it  is  inexperience  which  makes  me 
firm  in  my  convictions.  Do  you,  then,  suppose  that  no 
one  but  yourself  has  known  what  it  is  to  doubt  ?" 

"  Surely  I  am  not  so  foolish.  I  see  only  too  plainly 
that  to  doubt  in  this  age  is  but  to  be  conscious  of  the 
current  of  thought  which  flashes  through  it ;  but  you 
would  have  had  to  cling  as  I  once  clung  to  a  faith  which 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  133 

you  believed  most  satisfying,  which  was  based  on  the 
oldest  tradition,  on  the  firmest  authority,  which  was 
dearer  than  your  life."  She  paused  to  suppress  a  some- 
thing which  had  risen  in  her  throat,  and  proceeded  more 
calmly.  "  You  would  have  had  to  try  to  substitute 
this  faith  for  home,  for  family,  for  the  love  of  friends,  for 
earthly  passion,  to  make  it  all-sufficing,  and  then  to  have 
seen  it  fade  from  you,  to  have  felt  it  crumble  at  your 
touch,  to  know  the  full  terror,  the  absolute  bitterness,  of 
doubt." 

This  reply  was  more  than  Ledyard  expected.  The 
controlled  intensity  of  the  feeling  it  betrayed  struck  a 
kindred  chord  in  his  own  ardent  nature.  He  sprang  from 
his  seat  and  began  pacing  to  and  fro  with  an  increased 
desire  to  bring  help  and  comfort  to  this  tortured  spirit. 
"  It  is  strange,"  he  said,  impulsively, "  that  without  know- 
ing what  you  have  told  me  I  have  felt  it  ever  since  I 
first  saw  you ;  that  is  to  say,  I  have  fully  realized  what 
suffering  doubt  of  the  highest  truth  must  be  to  a  nature 
such  as  yours.  Now,  I  am  going  to  ask  you  some 
questions, — not  as  one  authorized  to  ask  them,  but  rather 
as  a  brother  might  ask,  for  I  am  longing  to  help  you ; 
but  unless  you  will  confide  in  me  I  am  without  the 
means  to  do  so.  Have  you  ceased  to  be  able  to  pray  ?" 

Cynthia  looked  up  wearily.  How  much  was  she 
going  to  reveal  of  her  sacredly-guarded  inner  history  if 
she  submitted  to  this  catechism  ?  But  the  strong,  manly 
face,  the  mouth  almost  too  firmly  set,  the  stern,  dark 
eyes  with  their  steady  gravity  of  gaze,  acted  upon  her 
with  strange  insistence,  seeming  almost  to  compel  her 
confidence,  and  she  felt  a  comfort  untasted  for  long 
years  in  yielding  him  the  trust  which  he  demanded. 

"  I  could  not  pray  for  a  long  while,"  she  said.  "  I 
never  attempted  to  do  so  but  I  was  mocked  with  a 
ghastly  uncertainty  as  to  the  object,  the  meaning,  of 
prayer.  What  was  the  rational  explanation  of  the 
mental  condition  in  which  one  prayed  ?  and,  after  all,  to 
whom  was  one's  prayer  lifted  ?" 

"  Had  you  lost  all  faith  in  a  Divine  Father  ?" 


134  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

"  I  fear  that  at  this  time  I  had  done  so ;  not  all  at 
once,  but  by  degrees.  It  came  about  that  first  I  ceased 
to  believe  in  the  Blessed  Virgin,  whose  poetic  presence 
once  filled  my  childish  visions,  for  I  had  seen  her  votaries 
do  the  most  unworthy  things  in  her  name,  and  had  later 
learned  that  all  I  was  taught  about  her  divine  power 
was  a  fabric  without  even  a  pretence  of  biblical  or  his- 
torical foundation.  This  shock  unseated  my  faith  in 
Christ,  and  I  began  to  look  askance  at  the  mystery  by 
which  his  double  claim  was  established.  How  did  I 
know  that  this  sacred  Being  had  lived,  much  less  that  he 
was  the  Son  of  God  ?  What  reason  was  there,  after  all, 
to  believe  in  the  existence  of  a  personal  God,  any  more 
than  of  a  personal  devil  ?  I  began  to  feel  that  if  there 
were  a  hell  it  was  for  those  who  were  misled  with  false 
hopes,  as  I  had  been ;  an  intellectual,  not  a  moral  in- 
famy. But  why  should  I  rehearse  all  this  ?  My  fall 
can  only  be  conceived  as  that  of  one  who  had  tried  to 
scale  the  ladder  of  belief  to  the  height  of  Heaven  but 
to  find  the  heavens  empty !" 

"  Yet  you  must  have  known  of  the  historical  founda- 
tion on  which  the  Bible  story  rests,"  said  Ledyard, 
calmly.  "  Were  you  familiar  with  the  writings  of  the 
four  evangelists  ?" 

"  Not  at  that  time.  According  to  the  rules  of  my 
church,  I  had  not  been  allowed  to  read  the  Bible  freely ; 
but  the  suffering  which  I  felt  after  my  dear  aunt's  death, 
at  the  thought  that  I  had  parted  with  my  truest  friend 
forever,  caused  me  to  search  in  all  directions  for  relief, 
and  I  very  naturally  began  to  study  the  New  Testament, 
of  which  she  had  been  a  humble,  patient  reader." 

"And  did  you  not  find  comfort  there?" 

"  Yes  and  no.  My  faith  in  God  Almighty  gradually 
came  back  to  me,  and  then  the  beauty  and  the  pathos 
of  the  death  of  Jesus  appealed  to  me  strongly,  whether 
as  the  closing  scene  of  a  spotless  human  existence  or  as 
a  sublime  sacrifice ;  but  in  his  life,  as  in  all  the  represen- 
tations of  him  I  had  ever  seen,  ancient  or  modern,  by 
painters  or  sculptors,  he  seemed  to  me  such  a  passionless 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  135 

being  that  we  poor,  struggling,  erring  mortals  could 
learn  little  from  him  for  the  guidance  of  our  storm- 
tossed  lives.  You  see  I  am  speaking  to  you  very 
frankly,  Mr.  Ledyard." 

"  And  I  appreciate  your  honesty  more  than  I  can  tell 
you,"  responded  Richard.  "  I  am  surprised  that  you 
gathered  this  conclusion  from  reading  the  Gospels,  but  I 
think  it  is  not  unnatural  from  having  studied  the  repre- 
sentations of  our  Lord  by  the  old  painters,  and  would 
even  be  suggested  to  the  mind  of  any  one  without  pre- 
possession by  the  pictures  of  Ary  Scheffer,  spiritually 
beautiful  as  they  are  in  conception.  Yet  I  think  it  very 
contrary  to  the  evidence  of  the  Scriptures.  What,  think 
you,  could  the  temptations  of  the  forty  days  and  nights 
in  the  wilderness  have  been,  if  not  those  common  to 
human  nature  ?  We  are  told  of  only  three  of  them,  the 
last  with  which  Satan  strove  to  beguile  the  Saviour. 
Now,  why  do  you  think  these  three  are  mentioned  and 
all  the  others  are  left  unchronicled  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,  any  more  than  I  know  why  these  three 
were  left  until  the  last.  They  surely  would  not  have 
proved  the  most  powerful  temptations  had  his  nature 
been  like  that  of  other  men." 

"  Ah,  you  have  touched  the  very  point  at  which  I  am 
aiming.  Had  his  nature  been  only  like  that  of  other 
men,  they  would  not;  but  surely  you  have  had  a  wide- 
enough  experience  of  humanity,  Miss  Arkwright,  to 
have  noticed  that  the  force  of  every  temptation  varies 
with  the  elevation  of  the  character  which  it  assails  ? 
That  which  rather  disgusts  than  attracts  a  higher  nature 
will  often  be  as  an  irresistible  longing  in  a  lower  one, 
or  the  reverse.  Is  it  not  reasonable  to  suppose  that  a 
God  who  had  voluntarily  taken  upon  him  the  faulty 
tendencies  of  a  man  would  be  subject  to  some  tempta- 
tions which  were  common  to  humanity  and  to  others 
such  as  no  man  ever  felt  ?  Would  not  the  age  of  ma- 
turity, the  time  of  the  ripening  of  youth  into  manhood, 
be  that  when,  with  the  perfection  of  all  his  human  powers, 
he  would  by  degrees  become  conscious  of  these  wider 


136  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

capabilities,  offering  greater  facility  for  good  or  evil,  than 
any  man  ever  dreamt  of  possessing  ?" 

"  Do  you  mean  that  he  would  become  conscious  of 
divine  power  ?" 

"That  is  what  I  mean,  and  that  is  the  kind  of  power 
which  Satan  is  undoubtedly  described  as  tempting  him 
to  exert  for  a  selfish  end.  Do  you  not  remember  ?" 

"  He  asks  him  to  turn  the  stones  into  bread,"  said 
Cynthia,  slowly,  "  and  then  bids  him  cast  himself  down 
from  a  pinnacle  of  the  temple,  that  angels  may  bear  him 
up,  and  then  offers  him  all  the  kingdoms  of  the  world 
if  he  will  but  worship  him." 

"  Exactly  so.  In  other  words,  he  first  suggests  his 
using  a  divine  power,  which  has  been  given  him  for  the 
good  of  mankind,  to  satisfy  his  bodily  hunger.  He 
then  suggests  that  if  he  casts  himself  down  from  a  great 
height,  divine  power  must  be  exerted  to  protect  him 
from  injury;  and  last  of  all,  he  offers  him  the  widest 
scope  for  his  newly-discovered  capabilities  of  which  it  is 
possible  for  him  to  conceive — temporal  sway  over  the 
whole  earth :  all  its  riches,  its  pleasures,  its  glory — if  he 
will  worship  him;  that  is,  if  he  will  use  his  supernatural 
power  for  a  mighty  ambition,  such  as  that  by  which  the 
angels  fell.  Do  you  not  see  that  none  of  these  suggestions 
would  offer  temptation  to  a  rational  man  f  When  asked 
to  turn  stones  into  bread,  such  a  one  would  know  that  he 
could  not.  When  told  to  cast  himself  down  from  a  pinna- 
cle, he  would  be  perfectly  aware  that  the  proceeding 
would  mean  self-destruction ;  and  when  proffered  all  the 
kingdoms  of  the  earth,  he  would  realize  that  no  one 
man  could  enjoy  or  find  pleasure  in  the  glory  of  them 
all,  however  glad  he  might  be  to  possess  one  or  two  of 
them.  It  would  thus  be  only  at  the  moment  that  the 
consciousness  of  the  divine  nature  which  he  possessed 
was  fully  awakened  within  him  that  these  proposals  of 
Satan  could  appeal  to  Jesus  Christ,  and  there  never  has 
been  any  sane  man  in  the  world  since  he  left  it  whom 
they  could  have  tempted  seriously." 

"  I  do  not  think  I  ever  heard  that  explanation,"  an- 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  137 

swered  Cynthia,  thoughtfully.  "  You  think  that  a  clever 
devil  would  not  have  made  these  propositions  to  an 
ordinary  human  being.  Is  this  idea  your  own  ?" 

"  Certainly  not ;  the  last  part  of  it  is  yours,  and  the 
rest  is  not  original  to  me.  Like  most  of  my  thoughts,  it 
came  out  of  a  book,"  said  Ledyard,  smiling. 

"  Well,  wherever  the  idea  may  come  from,  it  impresses 
me,"  she  rejoined,  "  as  if  a  true  one.  It  seems  a  kind  of 
internal  evidence  of  the  divine  nature  of  Jesus  Christ, 
yet  it  does  not  seem  to  show  that  he  was  any  more  of  a 
guide  to  weak  humanity.  Is  not  to  prove  that  his  temp- 
tations were  those  of  a  God  to  prove  also  that  he  was 
above  the  ordinary  temptations  of  a  man  ?" 

"  That  sounds  logical,  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  all 
human  nature  is  against  such  a  conclusion.  Is  not  the 
best  of  us  often  the  most  complex  ?  and  when  we  are 
told  that  our  Lord  took  upon  him  the  nature  of  a  man, 
are  we  not  meant  to  understand  that  with  that  nature 
came  its  imperfections  ?  What  I  have  been  endeavoring 
to  point  out  to  you  is,  that  he  had  to  contend  with  and 
to  reconcile  two  natures.  Those  temptations  which  as- 
sailed him  as  a  man  during  the  forty  days  and  forty 
nights  that  he  passed  in  the  wilderness  are  not  given  in 
detail ;  it  may  be  because  the  experience  of  each  human 
being  is  both  alike  and  different,  and  we  all  have  impulses, 
or  tendencies,  which  should  enable  us  to  imagine  the 
character  of  these  temptations,  common  to  mankind, 
through  which  he  passed  before  those  of  the  spirit  came 
upon  him,  which  were  his  alone,  in  token  of  his  divinity. 
Here  we  have  no  experience  which  could  afford  us 
the  faintest  parallel  on  which  to  build  conjecture,  and 
so  the  three  last  temptations  are  carefully  explained,  to 
give  us  some  insight  into  the  divine  part  of  that  great 
battle  which  was  being  fought  to  give  us  everlasting 
life." 

"  You  will  think  me  very  obstinate,"  said  Cynthia, 
"  but  I  cannot  understand  how  all  the  temptations  of  a 
human  life  could  be  met  and  disposed  of  in  the  course 
of  any  set  number  of  days  and  nights,  during  which  the 

12* 


138  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

individual  should  be  absolutely  apart  from  the  world,  in 
which  these  temptations  are  most  surely  met  with." 

"  But  why  do  you  suppose  that  all  the  temptations  of 
the  life  of  our  Lord  on  earth  were  met  and  disposed  oi 
in  this  short  space  of  time  ?" 

"  Have  you  not  just  said  so,  and  is  not  this  generally 
believed  ?" 

"  I  have  expressed  myself  very  ill  if  I  have  given  you 
that  impression,  and  you  are  right  to  correct  me,  know- 
ing as  you  do,  as  well  as  I,  that  it  was  thirty  years  after 
the  birth  of  Jesus  Christ  that  he  was  baptized  and  was 
led  up  into  the  wilderness  by  the  Spirit  to  be  tempted." 

"  Do  you  think,  then,  that  he  had  other  temptations 
before  that?"  asked  Cynthia,  doubtfully. 

"  How  could  it  be  otherwise  ?" 

"  I  confess,"  she  said,  with  mantling  color,  "  that  I 
have  always  thought  it  strange  that  we  were  told  so  little 
of  his  life,  if  it  were  intended  as  a  model  one  to  us. 
How  can  there  be  any  strength  to  uphold  us  through 
the  conflicts  of  human  passion  in  a  being  who  knew 
neither  love  nor  hatred  for  any  individual  ?" 

"  Surely  no  one  ever  proved  a  more  ardent  lover  of 
mankind,"  replied  Ledyard. 

"  Oh,  yes,  as  a  race ;  but  he  had  no  personal  knowl- 
edge of  the  love  of  a  parent  for  a  child,  or  the  protecting 
love  of  man  for  woman,  or  even  that  of  a  child  for  its 
earthly  parent.  Do  you  not  remember  that  when  his 
mother  turns  back  a  day's  journey  to  look  for  him,  and 
finds  him  at  last  in  the  temple,  he  tells  her  that  he  must 
go  about  his  Father's  work  ?  In  fact,  he  virtually  says 
that  he  has  no  time  to  spend  in  filial  affection.  And  we 
are  not  told  that  he  loved  any  other  woman  nobly  and 
truly,  as  a  man  may  love  without  lowering  his  nature," 
cried  Cynthia,  warmly. 

"  We  are  told  that  he  loved  little  children,  though," 
responded  Ledyard,  "  with  a  more  disinterested  love, 
perhaps,  than  any  man  can  feel  for  his  own  children, 
which  he  loves  as  a  part  of  himself;  and  while  we  do 
not  know  that  he  loved  any  woman,  we  are  left  free  to 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  139 

imagine  that  he  may  have  done  so,  nobly  and  truly,  as 
you  say,  although  it  would  have  been  impossible  that  he 
should  link  his  life  with  any  other  life  on  earth,  knowing 
his  high  mission  and  the  fearful  death  which  lay  before  him 
as  the  end  of  his  earthly  experience.  The  story  told  by 
the  Evangelists  is,  it  is  true,  the  simple  narrative  of  what 
he  taught  to  his  disciples,  or  what  they  themselves  wit- 
nessed, and  there  are  many  breaks  in  it.  There  are  but 
one  or  two  events  of  his  boyhood  recorded,  and  soon 
after  the  most  important  of  these  we  lose  sight  of  him 
altogether  until  he  comes  back  from  Galilee  a  man  of 
nearly  thirty.  What  mighty  struggle  between  earthly 
ambition  or  earthly  love  and  a  divine  duty  may  not  be 
consummated  in  this  silence  1  Does  not  each  one  of  us 
believe  in  our  individual  right  to  hold  the  secret  sorrow 
or  special  temptation  of  our  lives  sacred  from  all  eyes 
save  those  of  our  Heavenly  Father  ?  and  because  Christ 
lived  and  died  for  us,  have  we  any  right  to  tear  aside  the 
veil  which  hides  the  keenest  suffering  of  his  soul  on 
earth  ?  Do  we  not,  indeed,  see  this  veil  lifted  for  one 
moment,  when  in  the  garden  of  Gethsemane  he  prayed, 
'  O  my  Father,  if  it  be  possible,  let  this  cup  pass 
from  me'  ?  Could  it  be  further  penetrated  by  our 
human  sight,  but  to  derogate  from  the  dignity  of  his 
self-conquest  or  from  the  magnitude  of  his  self-sacri- 
fice ?" 

"  I  do  not  feel  as  if  anything  that  could  be  known 
about  him  would  do  that!"  exclaimed  Miss  Arkwright, 
with  unwonted  fervor. 

"  Nor  do  I,"  responded  Ledyard,  quickly  ;  "  but  that 
is  a  matter  of  feeling.  Why  should  we  not  extend  to 
our  Lord  and  Saviour  a  little  of  that  sympathy  and 
understanding  which  we  offer  to  our  friends,  every  inci- 
dent of  whose  lives  is  seldom  laid  bare  to  us?" 

"  Why  should  we  not  do  more,  if  we  do  so  much  ?" 
replied  Cynthia.  "  Why  should  we  not  entertain  for 
him  the  personal  enthusiasm  with  which  we  are  inspired 
for  the  heroes  of  the  world  ?  Surely  there  never  was  a 
leader  so  pure,  so  majestic,  so  unflinching  in  the  sacrifice 


140  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

of  himself  to  his  appointed  end;  but  was  he  also  a 
God  ?" 

"  He  must  have  been,  if  we  believe  him." 

"  That  is  very  true." 

"  I  think  from  what  you  have  told  me,"  said  Ledyard, 
'•  that  the  power  of  praying  to  God  has  returned  to 
you." 

"  In  a  measure  it  has.  I  have  even  offered  thanks  to 
God,  although  with  a  strong  sense  of  my  own  incon- 
sistency ;  for  the  God  of  my  later  years  is  a  very  different 
Being  from  the  one  I  believed  in  as  a  child.  He  is  rather 
an  All-pervading  Power,  a  Supreme  Orderer  of  great 
laws,  a  Being  too  great  to  take  account  of  my  existence, 
according  to  my  thought ;  and  yet  a  strangely  contra- 
dictory impulse  has  driven  me  to  thank  him  for  permit- 
ting certain  alleviations  of  the  lot  of  which  I  deemed 
him  unconscious." 

"  Ah !  that  was  the  beginning  of  the  dawn,"  cried 
Ledyard.  "  It  was  the  expression  of  man's  instinct 
towards  his  Maker,  forever  at  war  with  the  blind  and 
futile  effort  made  by  reason  to  prove  the  non-existence 
of  the  personal  Deity,  in  the  absence  of  material  proof 
of  his  Being,  and  it  saved  you  from  your  own  merci- 
lessness, — I  may  almost  say  from  despair." 

Miss  Arkwright  drew  a  sharp  breath  between  white 
lips,  and  then,  turning  to  Ledyard,  held  out  her  hand. 
"  I  am  glad  that  we  have  had  this  talk,  Mr.  Ledyard," 
she  said.  "  However  it  may  influence  my  flagging  faith, 
your  sympathy  has  done  me  good,  and  I  am  really 
grateful  to  you  for  listening  so  patiently  to  all  my  diffi- 
culties, although  I  was  very  far  from  intending  to  inflict 
them  upon  you  when  you  came  this  afternoon." 

Ledyard,  who  realized  that  the  hand  was  offered  in 
token  of  dismissal,  took  it  in  silence.  He  seemed  sud- 
denly to  have  lost  heart. 

He  had  endeavored  to  stand  beside  Cynthia  on  the 
broad  ground  of  Humanity  chosen  by  her,  and  look 
honestly  at  her  doubts  and  scruples,  without  showing 
either  surprise  or  disapproval  of  the  very  untheological 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  14! 

view  which  she  took  of  their  subject,  and  in  doing  this 
he  had  entirely  forgotten  himself.  He  would  be  a  thou- 
sand times  rewarded  for  the  effort  he  had  made  if  he 
could  think  that  his  argument  had  not  been  quite  for 
nothing ;  but  could  he  think  this  ? 

"  Have  I  really  helped  you  at  all  ?"  he  asked,  after  a 
moment's  pause. 

"  I  think  you  really  have,  a  little,"  she  said,  gravely ; 
"  although  I  shall  have  to  think  it  all  over  again  before 
I  am  quite  sure." 

She  was  rilled  with  wonder  at  the  look  of  joy  which 
lighted  up  his  face. 

"  Thank  you  for  telling  me,"  he  said.  "  It  is  so  much 
more  than  I  had  hoped." 

"  Why  do  you  care  so  much  ?"  she  asked,  impulsively. 

"  Would  you  not  care  if  you  could  help  me  ? — at  least, 
I  do  not  mean  exactly  that ;  but  would  you  not  care  if 
you  could  relieve  any  one,  even  in  a  small  degree,  whom 
you  believed  to  be  suffering  ?" 

Cynthia  colored  warmly.  "  You  are  very  good,"  she 
said,  quickly.  "  At  least,  I  believe  in  you."  How  he 
had  guessed  at  the  pain  she  bore  about  with  her  she  did 
not  know,  but  of  course  he  could  see  that  her  life  was 
not  as  that  of  other  women,  and,  while  it  was  evident 
that  he  was  strongly  attracted  by  her  character,  he  never 
addressed  her  in  any  other  way  than  as  a  brother  might 
have  spoken  to  his  favorite  sister. 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

IT  was  only  the  following  afternoon  that  as  Cynthia 
sat  at  her  work  by  the  parlor  window  she  saw  Ledyard 
coming  up  the  garden  walk. 

"  You  will  be  surprised  to  see  me  so  soon  again,"  he 
began,  apologetically,  "  but  there  is  something  about 
which  I  am  very  much  in  need  of  your  help." 


142  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

"  What  is  the  thing  ?" 

"  It  is  a  plan  which  I  have  long  formed  to  meet  those 
of  my  congregation  who  will  not  come  to  me,  on  their 
own  ground.  In  other  words,  I  want  to  have  services 
in  some  place  where  no  shyness  about  the  want  of  smart- 
looking  clothes  or  prejudice  about  entering  a  church 
shall  prevent  the  employees  of  the  factories  from  at- 
tending." 

Ledyard  was  standing  on  the  veranda  in  front  of 
Cynthia's  window,  speaking  fast  and  low,  with  his  eyes 
on  the  ground.  Suddenly  he  raised  them,  and  met  a 
surprised  and  rather  puzzled  expression  in  her  face, 
which  led  him  to  add,  hastily,  "  Of  course  I  do  not  want 
you  to  do  anything  which  is  against  your  sense  of  right ; 
if  you  feel  that  the  Church  services  will  not  be  of  any 
use  to  the  people,  and  that  no  particular  advantage  can 
come  of  my  exhortations,  do  not  hesitate  to  say  so." 

He  fixed  on  her  the  same  keen,  searching  gaze  with 
which  the  day  before  he  had  enjoined  her  to  trust  him, 
but  she  answered,  gently, — 

"  You  do  not  understand  me,  Mr.  Ledyard.  I  am 
very  far  from  imagining  that  you  could  not  help  the 
people,  and  I  know,  perhaps  better  than  some  others, 
how  sorely  they  are  in  need  of  help ;  but  what  surprises 
and  confuses  me  a  little  is,  how  you  fancy  that  I  can  be 
of  use  in  such  a  matter." 

"  Oh,  if  that  be  all,"  said  Ledyard,  with  an  expression 
of  great  relief,  "  I  can  tell  you  that  I  believe  you  are 
the  only  person  in  Dundaff  who  could  persuade  them 
to  listen.  You  have  more  influence  with  the  work- 
ingmen  and  women  than  any  one  else,  and  they  have 
perfect  confidence  in  your  sincere  wish  to  benefit  them. 
Yet  I  do  not  want  you  to  exert  this  influence  in  any  way 
which  may  not  seem  wise  to  yourself.  I  came  rather  to 
consult  you  as  to  how  you  think  I  had  better  set  about 
my  undertaking.  Do  you  think  it  would  be  well  to 
ask  the  mill-owners  to  let  me  hold  services  in  one  of 
the  factory  buildings,  or  do  you  think  it  would  be  better 
to  try  to  draw  the  people  together  in  the  open  air  ?" 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  143 

"  It  is  hard  to  say,"  replied  Cynthia,  thoughtfully. 
"  Sit  down,  Mr.  Ledyard,  and  speak  to  Buttercup  and 
Neptune.  You  are  wounding  them  deeply  by  your  heart- 
less show  of  indifference.  It  is  to  be  considered,"  she 
continued,  resuming  the  thread  of  discourse,  "  that  in 
leaving  your  church  to  seek  the  people  you  are  already 
going  more  than  half-way  to  meet  them.  Would  it  not 
be  well  that  they  should  go  the  rest  of  the  way  them- 
selves ?" 

"  I  think  it  would ;  but  how  ?" 

"  If  you  were  to  hold  the  services  in  one  of  the  fac- 
tory buildings,  as  you  suggest,  they  certainly  would  not 
be  required  to  make  much  exertion  in  the  matter.  It 
might  always  seem  to  them  that  they  had  very  little 
option.  But  suppose  you  were  to  call  them  together 
somewhere  in  the  woods,  where  you  could  get  space 
enough,  on  a  fine  Sunday  afternoon  ?  I  think  if  you 
did  so  they  would  answer  to  the  call." 

"  I  would  give  a  great  deal  to  speak  in  the  open  air," 
said  Richard,  musingly  ;  "  but  do  you  think  that  the 
people  would  listen  to  me  ?  Is  it  not  almost  rash  to 
submit  my  untried  powers  of  holding  their  attention  to 
so  severe  a  test  at  first  ?" 

"  I  think  the  people  would  listen  if  they  came  to  you, 
and  I  think  they  will  come  when  they  feel  that  you  are 
ready  to  go  to  them." 

"  It  is  odd,"  said  Ledyard,  his  expression  momentarily 
lighting  with  enthusiasm,  "  that  I  have  always  had  a 
desire  to  address  a  multitude  of  people  with  faces  turned 
upwards  under  the  free  light  of  heaven !  Perhaps  I 
have  the  same  associations  of  grandeur  with  such  a 
scene  which  you  have  with  a  thunder-storm,"  he  added, 
wickedly  ;  but  Cynthia  only  laughed,  detecting  his  evi- 
dent intention  to  tease  her. 

"  I  have  always  had  a  suspicion  that  you  are  secretly 
afraid  of  thunder-storms,"  she  said,  "and  that  is  why 
you  are  so  jealous  of  my  liking  them." 

"While  granting  the  premises,"  returned  Richard, 
who  had  seated  himself  on  a  low  chair  outside  the 


144  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

window,  "  and  also  that  fear  is  at  the  bottom  of  most 
jealousy,  I  demur  at  the  abject  form  of  fear  with  which 
you  credit  me.  It  is  not  always  fear  of  one's  rival  which 
causes  that  feeling,  I  think,  and  may  oftener  be  the  fear  of 
losing  the  object  of  one's  affections  or  friendship,  as  the 
case  may  be.  Now,  Neptune  and  I  would  be  inconsola- 
ble if  anything  happened  to  Miss  Arkwright,  should 
we  not,  Buttercup  ?"  He  caught  the  little  pussy  in  one 
hand  as  he  spoke,  and  placed  it  on  his  knee,  where  it 
began  playing  with  his  gold  watch-chain,  much  as  a 
child  might  have  done.  Neptune  watched  the  kitten's 
pastime,  with  raised  ears,  between  interest  and  disap- 
proval. 

Just  at  this  moment  a  slight  rustling  of  the  leaves  of 
the  lilac-bushes  in  front  of  the  house,  as  though  pushed 
aside  by  an  advancing  pedestrian,  caused  Cynthia  and 
Ledyard  both  to  look  up,  and  as  they  did  so  they  beheld 
a  figure  coming  into  view  in  the  gap  of  the  hedge  at  the 
foot  of  the  garden.  This  figure  was  so  unlike  the  usual 
rustic  characters  who  trod  the  narrow  path  leading  from 
the  high-road  to  the  meadow  behind  Miss  Arkwnght's 
house  that  it  instantly  arrested  their  attention,  even 
before  they  perceived  that  the  person  whom  they  were 
observing  had  paused  in  front  of  the  cottage,  with  a  half- 
doubtful,  half-appealing  expression. 

She  was  a  young  girl,  dressed  all  in  white,  not  very 
tall  or  very  slender,  but  with  a  lithe  grace  of  attitude 
and  of  movement,  a  sort  of  strength  and  vigor,  which 
seemed  but  half  developed,  from  the  child-like  curves  of 
her  arms  and  hands  and  the  soft  outline  of  her  cheek. 
There  would  have  been  nothing  in  her  appearance  to 
attract  attention  at  an  ordinary  summer  watering-place, 
except,  perhaps,  her  beauty;  but  Dundaff  was  not  a 
place  of  summer  resort,  and  fashionably-dressed  young 
ladies  were  not  a  common  sight  in  its  vicinity.  Ledyard 
recognized  her  at  once  as  the  stranger  he  had  met  at 
Camelot,  and,  rising  instinctively  from  his  seat,  went  for- 
ward to  open  the  rustic  gate  which  led  into  the  shallow 
garden,  thus  affording  himself  a  nearer  view  of  the  fair 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  145 

intruder.  Cynthia  had  advanced  to  the  door-way,  where 
she  stood  quite  still,  lost  in  wonder. 

"  I  beg  pardon,"  began  a  sweet,  childish  voice,  ad- 
dressing Ledyard.  "  Do  you  know  Miss  Arkwright's  cot- 
tage, and  can  you  tell  me  where  it  is  ?"  Then,  recognizing 
him,  she  exclaimed,  "  Is  this  not  Mr.  Ledyard  ?  Why, 
how  fortunate  I  am  to  find  you  here  !  I  have  been  look- 
ing everywhere  for  the  house  of  Miss  Cynthia  Ark- 
wright.  Can  you  direct  me  to  it  ?"  She  looked  up  at 
him  confidently,  as  though  assured  that  since  she  had 
found  him  her  difficulties  would  soon  be  at  an  end. 

Not  insensible  to  such  unconscious  flattery,  Ledyard 
informed  her  that  this  was  the  very  cottage  of  which  she 
was  in  search,  and  turning  towards  the  cottage  door-way, 
where  Cynthia  had  been  standing  since  her  visitor  first 
came  in  sight,  added,  "  Here  is  Miss  Arkwright  herself." 
Then  he  perceived  for  the  first  time  that  a  brilliant  color 
had  risen  on  Cynthia's  usually  pale  cheeks,  while  her 
dark-gray  eyes  had  grown  almost  black  with  suppressed 
excitement. 

"  Nathalie  !"  she  exclaimed,  "  can  this  be  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  Cynthia !  I  hoped  you  would  know  me !" 

There  was  a  streak  of  white  light,  as  it  seemed  to 
the  dazzled  eyes  of  the  young  man.  Exactly  what  hap- 
pened he  did  not  know.  The  girl  had  dashed  past  him, 
and  Miss  Arkwright  was  beside  her,  and  the  two  were 
in  each  other's  arms. 

"  Oh,  Cynthia !  I  have  wanted  so  to  see  you !  How 
could  you  go  and  leave  us  all  ?  We  thought  you  were 
in  a  convent ;  and  to  think  of  your  living  here  and  our 
not  knowing  anything  about  it !" 

"  My  dear  little  sister !"  he  heard  Cynthia  say,  and 
then  he  thought  it  would  be  well  to  let  himself  out  of 
the  gate  which  he  had  opened  so  benignly  to  let  in  the 
stranger. 

"  Where  have  you  come  from,  Nathalie  ?"  asked  Cyn- 
thia, when  they  were  left  alone.  "  How  did  you  know 
where  to  find  me  ?  Who  told  you  that  I  was  here  ?" 

In  answer  to  which  questions  Nathalie  informed  her 
G  k  13 


146  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

that  she  was  staying  at  Camelot  with  her  friend  Miss 
Florence  Betterton. 

"  Staying  with  the  Bettertons !"  exclaimed  Cynthia 
with  haughty  surprise,  but  quickly  checked  the  expres- 
sion of  it  as  she  saw  Nathalie's  sensitive  face  change. 

"  Ah,  yes,"  she  said :  "  why  not  ?  I  used  to  go  to 
school  with  Flony  before  we  went  abroad,  and  you 
don't  know  how  it  cuts  a  girl  off  from  other  girls,  Cyn- 
thia, to  be  taken  away  to  Europe,  right  in  the  midst  of 
school,  as  I  was,  and  made  to  study  in  Paris  and  Berlin, 
with  horrid  masters !  I  was  glad  enough  when  Florry 
Betterton  remembered  me  and  came  to  see  me." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  understand ;  but  how  did  you  know 
about  my  being  here  ?"  Cynthia  had  drawn  her  sister 
into  the  house,  and  they  were  seated  together  on  the 
sofa  in  her  quaint  little  parlor,  the  same  where  Posey 
had  been  lying  a  few  days  before.  The  light  from  the 
nearest  window  fell  full  on  Nathalie's  face,  bringing  out 
the  shape  of  her  delicate  features,  showing  how  fine  and 
fair  was  her  skin,  and  even  disclosing  the  tiny  dimple 
beside  her  mouth.  The  mouth  itself  was  firm  and  frank, 
although  suggestive  of  the  most  varied  possibilities.  It 
was,  indeed,  ready  to  break  into  a  mischievous  smile  at 
one  moment,  while  the  next  found  it  grave  with  the  ex- 
treme gravity  of  youth,  in  one  whose  thoughts  appear 
to  themselves  all-important.  What  with  her  gold-brown 
hair,  and  radiant  blue  eyes,  and  general  air  of  ease  and 
gayety,  she  might  not  have  impressed  one  as  having 
much  force  or  individuality  but  for  that  indefinable 
something  about  the  mouth  and  a  certain  latent  power 
in  her  form  and  movements  which  seemed  to  underlie 
her  charming  prettiness. 

"  Why,  you  see,  they  were  all  talking  about  Mrs.  Hen- 
derson's accident,"  she  said,  in  reply  to  her  sister's  last 
question,  "  and  they  told  me  that  she  had  been  taken  to 
Miss  Ark wright's  cottage,  and  when  I  asked  what  Miss 
Arkwright  they  meant,  they  said,  '  Miss  Cynthia  Ark- 
wright,  of  course,'  and  with  that  I  was  so  astounded 
that  I  made  them  tell  me  all  they  knew  about  you,  dear; 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  147 

but  I  found  it  was  not  very  much,  and  yet  they  all  swore 
that  you  had  been  living  here  for  six  or  eight  years,  in 
fact,  almost  as  long  as  we  had  been  in  Europe.  I  could 
hardly  believe  my  ears,  for  I  had  never  heard  of  any 
other  Cynthia  Arkwright,  and  yet  how  could  it  be  you  ?" 

When  Nathalie  had  reached  this  point  in  her  explana- 
tion, she  raised  her  eyes  with  a  serious  expression  of 
reproachful  surprise  to  her  sister's  face,  which  caused 
Cynthia  to  smile. 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  it  is  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Quite  sure,  quite  sure,"  Nathalie  answered.  "  Oh, 
Cynthia,  there  never  was  any  one  half  so  handsome  or 
so  good!  But  why  did  you  come  here?" 

Cynthia  sighed.  "  It  is  a  very  long  story,"  she  said, 
"  and  rather  a  dull  one,  but  I  will  tell  you  part  of  it." 

And  so  she  did,  while  Nathalie  listened  breathlessly 

to  the  account  of  her  illness,  of  her  return  from  the 

convent,  of  her  finding  her  father's  house  empty  and 

the  family  all  gone  to  Europe,  and  of  her  coming  to  live 

'at  Dundaffwith  her  aunt. 

"  But  why  did  you  not  write  to  us  ?  Why  would  you 
not  let  us  know  of  your  return  ?" 

"  I  said  I  would  tell  you  part  of  the  story,  dear. 
There  is  a  part  of  it  which  I  cannot  tell,  but  you  must 
believe  that  I  had  a  good  reason  for  not  speaking  of  my 
being  here.  Have  you  not  heard  that  when  one  goes 
into  a  convent  one  ma^es  all  sorts  of  vows?" 

"  Was  that  it  ?  H;K!  you  made  a  vow  not  to  tell  us  ? 
But  how  strange  to  keep  it  when  you  were  not  living  as 
a  nun !" 

"  Yes,  it  was  st»vnge ;  but  now,  little  one,  it  is  grow- 
ing late,  and  yovy  friends  will  be  anxious.  How  did  you 
come  ?" 

In  reply  f'>  '-his  question  Nathalie  admitted  that  she 
had  come  in  the  Betterton  carriage  as  far  as  Miss  Platt's 
millinery-shop,  where  she  was  to  meet  Mrs.  Betterton 
and  Florence. 

"  And  how  long  shall  you  be  with  the  Bettertons  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  >aiow  ;  perhaps  a  week  or  so.     You  see, 


148  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

mamma  and  the  girls  are  so  fond  of  going  to  watering 
places,  and  I  think  it  is  tiresome.  Since  mamma  had  the 
bronchitis  she  is  not  strong,  of  course,  and  the  air  of 
Berkeley  Springs,  where  they  are  now,  is  good  for  her, 
and  the  girls  like  it  there ;  but  I  hate  living  in  hotels,  so 
I  begged  off." 

Cynthia  hesitated  for  a  moment.  She  cast  down  her 
eyes,  as  though  communing  with  herself. 

"  Would  you  like  to  come  and  make  a  visit  to  me, 
Nathalie,"  she  asked,  "  after  you  have  ended  your  stay 
with  them  ?" 

"  To  come  here  ?"  asked  her  sister,  in  surprise.  "  Why, 
I  should  like  it  of  all  things !  But  are  you  sure  you 
want  me,  Cynthia?  Should  I  not  be  a  trouble?" 

Cynthia  looked  searchingly  into  her  clear  blue  eyes, 
while  the  almost  painful  color  which  had  risen  to  her 
own  cheeks  gradually  faded  away.  "  If  you  would 
really  like  to  come,"  she  said,  "  it  would  be  the  greatest 
pleasure  to  me  in  the  world  to  have  you  with  me.  It 
would  almost  be  like  growing  young  again  myself." 

"  You  are  not  old,  Cynthia, — not  what  I  call  old. 
Do  you  know,  I  think  you  never  will  be.  How  happy 
it  will  make  me  to  be  once  more  with  you  !" 

"  You  will  come,  then  ?" 

"  I  will  indeed."     And  so  it  was  arranged. 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

WHEN  Cynthia  Arkwright  lay  down  to  sleep  that 
night  she  could  hardly  believe  in  the  great  change 
which  had  come  into  her  life  in  the  fading  hours  of  one 
short  afternoon.  She  had  often  thought  of  her  little 
sister  Nathalie,  who,  if  but  half  her  own,  was  yet  the 
only  relation  now  whom  she  had  in  the  world,  yet  had 
imagined  that,  like  the  rest  of  the  children  of  her  step- 
mother, she  would  hardly  grow  up  to  be  congenial  to 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  149 

her,  even  if  she  were  not  taught  to  consider  that  the 
sister  who  had  chosen  to  leave  her  home  for  a  convent 
had  thus  outlawed  herself  to  all  affection.  To  be  sud- 
denly confronted,  therefore,  with  so  satisfactory  an  em- 
bodiment of  the  grace  and  charm  which  she  vaguely 
recalled  as  indicated  in  the  impulsive,  high-spirited  child, 
— to  find  the  fresh  girlish  nature  unchanged  by  absence 
or  by  circumstance,  the  heart  warm  and  tender  as  of 
old,  was  a  great  and  unexpected  happiness. 

The  chosen  isolation  of  her  life,  which  had  given  her 
courage  and  self-reliance  in  proportion  as  it  required 
these  qualities,  had  not  rendered  her  as  indifferent  to 
the  ties  of  affection  as  to  the  criticism  of  strangers. 
The  innate  longing  to  be  sympathized  with  and  under- 
stood was  not  dead  within  her.  It  was,  perhaps,  all  the 
keener  and  more  eager  for  its  long  starvation,  and  the 
spontaneous  gift  of  love  which  now  seemed  offered  to 
her  was,  therefore,  doubly  prized. 

Richard  Ledyard,  on  the  other  hand,  walking  back- 
ward and  forward  in  the  narrow  confines  of  his  study, 
as  he  often  did  late  into  the  night,  found  his  mind  unduly 
occupied  with  the  sudden  appearance  of  the  unknown 
maiden.  How  impossible  to  associate  the  existence  of 
such  a  sister  as  that  with  the  lonely  life  and  ascetic 
retirement  of  Cynthia  Arkwright !  Yet  surely  she  had 
called  her  sister.  Truly,  the  life  of  this  village  recluse 
seemed  ever  taking  on  new  phases  of  mystery. 

But  it  was  not  only  for  the  sake  of  Miss  Arkwright 
that  Ledyard  felt  an  interest  in  this  charming  apparition. 
He  had  been  touched,  attracted  by  the  warmth  of  the 
fresh  young  creature's  greeting  to  her  lonely  sister. 
He  felt  an  answering  glow  of  gratitude  for  her  seeming 
fervor  of  appreciation  of  the  innate  nobility  of  character 
which  aroused  his  own  deep  sentiment  of  reverence  for 
Cynthia,  but  he  also  was  possessed  with  a  strong  desire 
to  look  once  more  on  the  loveliness  of  the  girl's  face, 
while  the  exuberant  vitality  of  her  nature  had  seemed 
to  thrill  through  him  like  music  in  the  one  instant  that 
he  stood  near  her. 

'3* 


150  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

Such  emotion  was  quite  new  to  Ledyard.  Vainly 
had  the  young  ladies  of  the  congregation  blushed  and 
simpered  for  his  benefit.  He  was  not  only  enough  a 
man  of  the  world  to  value  such  tributes  at  their  worth, 
but  to  realize  that  they  would  have  been  flung  at  the 
feet  of  any  other  man  of  his  age  and  position.  He  had 
a  tendency,  indeed,  to  distrust  self-consciousness,  and 
had  been  proportionately  pleased  by  a  certain  outspoken 
frankness  of  demeanor  in  Miss  Florence  Betterton. 
Indeed,  the  directness  with  which  that  young  lady 
approached  her  object  had  not  only  put  him  at  his  ease, 
but  somewhat  off  his  guard.  He  felt  towards  her  very 
much  as  if  she  had  been  a  good-natured  school-boy. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  he  had  given  a  promise  to 
her  to  look  into  the  possibilities  of  her  being  able  to 
make  herself  useful  at  St.  Andrew's.  He  was  also  full 
of  his  new  scheme  of  inducing  the  factory  people  to 
listen  to  him  anywhere  that  it  could  be  made  possible. 

He  determined  to  go  and  "  have  a  look,"  as  he  ex- 
pressed it  to  himself,  at  the  factory  children  and  their 
parents,  and  started  in  the  morning  to  walk  to  the  mills, 
so  timing  himself  as  to  arrive  there  at  the  hour  for  rest 
and  the  noonday  meal. 

As  he  passed  through  the  stone  gate-way  which 
admitted  to  the  factory  yard,  he  was  surprised  by  an 
unexpected  sight,  for  full  in  the  midst  of  a  court  closed 
in  by  the  walls  of  the  three  great  granite  buildings  he 
beheld  Wilfred  Henderson,  seated  on  his  pony,  slowly 
pacing  to  and  fro  before  a  ragged  little  squadron  of  bare- 
headed, bare-legged  boys  drawn  up  as  soldiers  on 
parade,  armed  with  long,  irregular  sticks  of  various 
lengths  and  sizes,  evidently  the  smaller  branches  of  a 
forest-tree  which  lay  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  road, 
where  it  had  fallen  a  day  or  two  before,  having  been 
uprooted  and  come  tearing  down  the  steep  hill-side  in 
the  midst  of  a  summer  storm. 

"  Attention  !  Order !  Forward,  march  !"  shouted 
the  amateur  general  from  the  commanding  height  of  his 
restive  steed,  while  all  the  little  ragamuffins  in  the  fac- 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  15  I 

tory,  most  of  them  several  years  older  than  Wilfred,  be- 
sides a  number  of  others  nearer  his  age  who  were  too 
young  as  yet  to  begin  to  work  (among  whom  Ledyard 
recognized  his  friend  Johnny  Baker),  began  to  advance 
in  more  or  less  irregular  lines  to  the  most  martial  of 
music,  performed  on  several  old  tin  pans  by  the  Baker 
girls,  with  the  assistance  of  a  large  contingent  of 
other  little  factory  maidens  with  tangled  hair  and  torn 
frocks. 

"  You  see  the  love  of  power  showing  itself  early  in 
my  son,  Mr.  Ledyard,"  said  a  voice  beside  Richard,  who 
turned  to  see  Lieutenant  Henderson  standing  near  by, 
holding  his  own  horse  by  the  bridle  as  though  about  to 
mount,  while  his  eyes  rested  with  ill-concealed  pride  on 
the  manly  form  of  his  little  boy.  "  The  rascal  teases  the 
life  out  of  me  to  bring  him  here  every  time  he  suspects 
my  intention  of  riding  to  the  factories,"  he  continued, 
"and  all  the  while  that  Mr.  Betterton  and  I  are  closeted 
together  this  is  the  way  he  distracts  himself." 

"  Not  a  bad  way  at  all,  Lieutenant  Henderson,"  said 
Ledyard.  "  I  am  sure  it  must  be  good  for  the  factory 
boys,  and  I  do  not  believe  it  does  your  son  any  harm." 

"  Any  harm  !  Well,  no,  I  can't  see  that  the  associa- 
tion will  do  Wilfred  any  harm ;  but  I  am  at  a  loss  to 
understand  how  he  bullies  those  rough  little  fellows  into 
minding  him,  and  I  doubt  if  it  is  just  the  best  thing  for 
the  jackanapes  to  have  all  these  other  monkeys  ready  to 
follow  his  bidding,  to  imitate  his  slightest  gesture,  or  to 
turn  on  him  with  oaths  and  imprecations,  as  one  of 
them  did  the  other  day  because  he  saw  another  boy 
preferred  as  second  in  command  to  the  self-constituted 
general  there." 

"  As  far  as  the  bad  language  goes,  one  would  be  sorry 
to  have  him  hear  that,  certainly,"  replied  Ledyard,  "  but 
the  boy  would  not  be  able  to  hold  his  own  in  the  way 
he  does  among  the  others  if  he  really  did  bully  them. 
In  this  country  that  sort  of  thing  does  not  go  down. 
His  refined  face,  and  the  rather  aristocratic  style  of  his 
dress,  so  far  from  inducing  them  to  treat  him  with  respect, 


152  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

would  be  apt  to  lead  to  envy  and  ill  treatment,  or  even 
to  make  him  laughed  at  and  avoided,  if  he  did  not  know 
how  to  keep  a  civil  tongue  in  his  head  when  in  his  char- 
acter of  Master  Henderson,  however  he  may  choose  to 
hector  it  as  general  in  command  of  the  field." 

So  it  fell  out  that  these  two  men  thus  entering  into 
conversation  with  regard  to  the  ragged  regiment  of  fac- 
tory boys  soon  came  to  talk  of  the  boys'  fathers  and 
mothers,  and  thus  arrived  at  the  subject  which  chanced 
to  be  interesting  them  both  most  deeply,  although  from 
different  points  of  view, — that  is,  how  to  help  the  work- 
ing-people. 

Henderson  was  concerned  with  the  economic  or  so- 
cial aspect  of  the  problem,  and  Ledyard  with  its  moral 
possibilities ;  but  it  happened  that  both  were  much  in 
earnest,  and  before  long  they  became  deeply  absorbed 
in  expounding  their  views  to  one  another.  It  was  a  rare 
luxury  to  Henderson  to  have  some  one  to  talk  to  who 
had  thought  about  the  question  which  was  principally 
occupying  his  mind  just  then,  and  Ledyard  saw  in  the 
meeting  a  valuable  opportunity  of  securing,  if  possible, 
the  cooperation  of  one  of  the  mill-owners  in  the  work 
of  reform  which  he  was  so  anxious  to  begin. 

They  were  mutually  surprised  when  the  tolling  of  the 
great  factory-bell  proclaimed  that  the  hour  for  rest  and 
recreation  was  over,  and  the  sons  and  daughters  of  toil 
must  return  to  their  ever-beginning,  never-ending  tasks. 

"  Come  home  and  lunch  with  me,  Mr.  Ledyard,"  said 
Henderson,  impulsively.  "  Take  my  groom's  horse,  and 
ride  back  with  Wilfred  and  myself,  and  have  a  cigar 
with  me  after  luncheon.  We  can  talk  much  more  at 
ease  while  we  smoke." 

Ledyard  hesitated.  "  I  really  feel  that  I  should  like  to 
help  you  in  any  way  I  can  to  carry  out  your  plans,"  he 
said,  "  and  I  should  be  glad  to  explain  to  you  my  own 
schemes,  but  perhaps  we  had  better  wait  for  some  other 
day  to  discuss  the  thing  in  full." 

"  Oh,  as  for  that,"  said  Millard,  "  there  is  no  time  like 
the  present ;  and  I  am  a  little  curious  to  know  what  you 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  153 

have  it  in  mind  to  do.  Will  you  not  come?  Mrs. 
Henderson  is  away,  and  Wilfred  and  I  are  alone." 

This  last  argument  proved  conclusive  in  overcoming 
Richard's  modest  scruples.  He  decided  to  put  them 
aside,  and  rode  to  Fernwood  in  company  with  Lieuten- 
ant Henderson  and  his  son. 

Now,  it  so  chanced  that  Mrs.  Henderson,  who  had 
carried  out  her  plan  of  going  to  spend  a  few  days  with 
her  mother,  had  also  planned  to  return  to  Dundaff  on 
this  Friday,  but  had  said  nothing  of  her  intention  to 
her  husband,  for  reasons  best  known  to  herself.  Indeed, 
no  news  could  have  been  more  surprising  to  Millard  on 
reaching  Fernwood  with  Ledyard  that  morning  than  to 
be  told  that  Mrs.  Henderson  had  come. 

"  De  mistress  would  like  to  speak  to  you  directly, 
sar,"  said  old  Pompey,  after  making  the  announcement, 
and  Henderson  excused  himself  to  his  guest  that  he 
might  hasten  to  his  wife.  Ten — fifteen — twenty  minutes 
passed,  at  the  end  of  which  Millard  returned,  looking  a 
little  troubled. 

"  I  hope  you  will  excuse  me,  Mr.  Ledyard,  for  leaving 
you  so  long,  but  my  wife  has  just  come  back  from  a 
little  visit  to  her  mother,  and  she  seems  to  have  over- 
done somewhat, — in  truth,  she  looks  very  tired,  and 
begs  me  to  excuse  her  to  you.  She  is  sorry  not  to  be 
well  enough  to  come  down  to  luncheon." 

Ledyard  immediately  began  to  feel  that  he  would 
have  been  wiser  to  have  obeyed  his  first  instinct  and 
declined  Henderson's  pressing  invitation,  but  it  was 
evident  that  his  host  was  quite  determined  to  chase  all 
such  retrospective  regret  from  his  mind,  for  he  became 
more  and  more  cordial  in  his  expressions  of  pleasure  at 
having  the  opportunity  to  talk  to  him,  welcomed  him 
heartily  to  the  simple  but  elegantly-served  luncheon  which 
they  found  waiting  for  them,  and  warmed  into  unex- 
pected sympathy  when  Ledyard  shyly  told  of  his  desire 
to  preach  to  the  employees  of  the  factory  wherever  they 
could  be  brought  together  in  one  of  the  buildings  or  in 
the  open  air. 


154  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

"  Of  course,  if  they  will  not  go  to  church,  it  is  the 
only  thing  to  do,"  Millard  said,  with  enthusiasm.  "  Why 
not  get  them  together  in  the  woods  on  Sunday  after- 
noon ?  and  why  not  have  the  Sunday-school  there  too,  as 
you  suggest  ?  It  might  be  managed,  I  think,  by  a  week 
from  to-morrow.  Let  us  try." 

Richard  was  surprised.  "  I  had  not  ventured  to  hope 
that  any  one  would  really  care  about  the /thing  as  you 
seem  to  do,"  he  said,  gratefully,  "  except  myself." 

"  Do  you  not  know,  then,  that  it  was  my  aunt,  Mrs. 
Pelham,  who  built  that  church  especially  in  the  hope  of 
inducing  the  factory-workers  to  belong  to  it?  Of  course 
I  feel  that  in  taking  my  uncle's  place  here  I  am  bound 
to  do  all  in  my  power  to  further  her  wishes  in  the  matter, 
even  if  I  did  not  think  that  such  an  influence  as  yours 
would  be  in  every  way  conducive  to  my  own  object  of 
civilizing  and  humanizing  the  laborers." 

"  And  may  I  ask  whether  you  are  yourself  a  church- 
man, or  whether  you  only  advocate  the  teaching  of  a 
creed  to  the  people  from  a  philanthropic  point  of  view  ?" 
asked  Richard,  with  interest. 

"  Both,"  said  Millard,  coloring  and  with  a  slight 
change  of  manner.  "  I  was  brought  up  in  the  Church, 
although  I  have  not  always  felt  entirely  in  harmony 
with  it  of  late  years.  That,  however,  is  hardly  the 
point."  His  tone  had  become  somewhat  cold,  if  not 
indifferent,  and  Ledyard's  ardor  felt  the  chill  of  his 
withdrawn  sympathy. 

"  And  yet  many  of  the  men  who  have  given  their  lives 
to  the  study  of  the  social  questions  which  especially 
attract  you,"  he  returned,  "  have  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  Christ's  teaching  literally  followed  would  be  the 
most  perfect  solution  of  the  problem." 

"  I  am  one  of  them,  Mr.  Ledyard,"  said  Henderson, 
rising  from  his  seat  as  he  spoke,  and  placing  a  small 
silver  tray  with  cigars  on  it  before  his  guest.  "It  is 
where  I  have  fancied  that  the  spirit  of  the  church  was 
not  entirely  consistent  with  that  teaching  that  I  have 
been  inclined  to  differ  from  it.  As  I  said  before,  how' 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  155 

ever,  it  is  hardly  worth  while  for  us  to  discuss  that,  as 
there  seem  to  be  so  many  points  on  which  we  agree  and 
can  help  one  another." 

Ledyard  said  no  more.  He  saw  that  he  was  at  once 
understood  and  answered.  They  returned  to  the  practi- 
cal view  of  their  subject,  by  mutual  consent,  and,  after 
discussing  the  possibility  of  arranging  to  hold  services 
in  the  open  air  the  Sunday  of  the  following  week,  de- 
cided that  the  factory  buildings  were  only  to  be  re- 
sorted to  in  case  of  rain,  and  that  on  the  first  occasion  it 
would  be  wise  to  speak  of  holding  the  meeting,  in  case 
the  day  were  clear.  No  one  could  have  been  more  kind, 
more  sensible,  or  more  full  of  wise  forethought  than 
Lieutenant  Henderson,  Ledyard  thought,  and  but  one 
little  incident  happened  to  interfere  with  the  very  pleas- 
ant impression  which  he  received  of  his  visit.  This  was 
when  they  were  smoking  together,  after  luncheon,  on 
the  piazza  at  the  back  of  the  house,  upon  which  the 
dining-room  windows  opened. 

Little  Wilfred,  who  had  evidently  been  well  instructed 
according  to  the  good  old  rule,  that  "  little  boys  should 
be  seen  and  not  heard"  when  older  people  were  talking, 
was  playing  quietly  with  some  marbles  on  the  gravel 
walk  which  led  from  the  piazza,  to  the  Fernwood  gar- 
dens, when  suddenly  he  began  to  laugh  and  point  in  the 
direction  of  some  shrubbery  at  one  side. 

"  I  see  you  !  No,  you  need  not  hide.  I  see  you  quite 
plainly,"  he  cried,  in  great  glee.  "  What  are  you  holding 
up  your  finger  to  your  lips  for  ?  Why,  mamma,  how 
angry  you  look !  I  did  not  mean  to  say  anything  to 
make  you  angry." 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Wilfred  ?"  asked  his  father,  who 
had  been  talking  himself,  and  had  failed  to  catch,  there- 
fore, all  that  the  little  fellow  had  said,  as  Ledyard  had. 
"  Who  are  you  talking  to,  my  boy  ?"  he  added,  curiously. 

"  I — I  don't  care  to  say,"  stammered  the  child,  growing 
suddenly  red  and  looking  very  much  confused ;  "  I  am 
not  sure." 

"  You  are  not  sure  ?"  repeated  Henderson  ;  "  but  who 


156  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

did  you  think  you  saw  ?     Any  one  ?     Is  there  any  one 
there  ?" 

The  boy  turned  his  head  again  in  the  direction  in 
which  he  had  been  gazing,  with  a  look  of  fear  in  his  face 
strangely  at  variance  with  the  merry  expression  which  it 
had  worn  a  moment  or  two  before. 

"  No,"  he  said ;  "  there  is  no  one  there,  papa." 

"  Was  there  any  one  there  ?"  his  father  asked. 

"  I  can't  tell." 

"  Wilfred,  come  here." 

"  Please,  papa,  I  would  rather  not." 

"  Come  here  this  moment."     The  boy  came. 

"  Now  tell  me  what  you  saw." 

"  I — I  must  not  tell.  Papa,  papa,  don't  look  so  at  me, 
too  !  Oh,  what  shall  I  do?"  he  cried,  in  a  kind  of  terror. 

Henderson  surveyed  the  child  in  wide-eyed  amaze- 
ment. He  was  usually  so  amiable,  so  responsive,  so 
frank,  and  so  fearless,  that  this  sudden  fit  of  obstinacy 
seemed  perfectly  unaccountable. 

"  Do  not  urge  him,"  Ledyard  said,  in  a  low  tone. 
"  Something  has  happened  to  frighten  him,  perhaps,  or 
else  he  thinks  he  should  not  speak  before  me.  He  will, 
no  doubt,  tell  you  what  it  is  later,  of  his  own  free  will." 

"  You  are  right,"  responded  Mallard,  with  a  sudden 
clearing  of  his  troubled  face.  "  It  is  of  no  conceivable 
consequence,  at  any  rate,  is  it,  little  man  ?"  he  continued, 
patting  the  boy's  cheek  playfully  and  bidding  him  run 
away. 

But  Ledyard  had  seen  something  which  troubled  him 
almost  as  much  as  it  did  Wilfred.  At  the  moment  the 
child  first  spoke  he  had  glanced  involuntarily  in  the 
direction  to  which  he  was  pointing,  and  had  been  sur- 
prised by  the  apparition  of  an  anxious  face  peering  out 
among  the  shrubbery, — a  face  which  he  realized  with  a 
sudden  shock  that  he  knew  well,  and  yet,  with  equal 
bewilderment,  he  fancied  that  he  recalled  it  as  that  of 
Mrs.  Henderson,  whom,  to  the  best  of  his  belief,  he  had 
only  seen  once  before,  when  he  had  picked  her  up 
in  the  state  of  syncope  caused  by  her  accident.  Then 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  157 

the  child's  voice  addressing  her  as  mamma  dispelled  all 
doubt  on  this  point,  and  to  Ledyard  a  flash  of  memory 
brought  back  the  vague  sense  of  familiarity  with  which 
her  unconscious  face  had  inspired  him  that  day,  and 
forthwith  converted  it  into  an  absolute  certainty  of 
recognition;  for  with  restored  animation  her  countenance 
now  wore  an  entirely  familiar  aspect ;  and  thus  he  had 
the  extraordinary  experience  of  identifying  her  at  one 
and  the  same  moment  as  two  distinct  persons.  He  was 
almost  sure,  too,  that  she  knew  him,  and  that  the  sign 
she  made  of  placing  her  ringer  on  her  lips  to  insure 
silence  from  the  child  had  been  equally  intended  to 
prevent  him  from  speaking,  while  Henderson,  whose 
back  was  turned  towards  her,  had  evidently  seen  nothing. 
In  fact,  Millard  continued  to  converse  very  agreeably 
on  many  subjects,  all  of  more  or  less  interest  to  his  guest, 
and  Ledyard  made  valiant  efforts  to  command  his  facul- 
ties and  to  keep  his  attention  on  what  his  host  was 
saying,  but,  in  spite  of  a  growing  esteem  for  Henderson, 
he  was  no  longer  able  to  enjoy  his  society  as  he  had 
done  a  half  an  hour  before,  owing  to  a  new-born  sense 
of  uneasiness  and  constant  tendency  to  speculate  or  con- 
jecture as  to  a  discovery  which  he  dared  not  speak  of, 
with  as  constant  an  effort  to  put  it  aside  and  turn  his 
thoughts  to  other  things. 


CHAPTER   XX. 

IT  was  still  early  in  the  afternoon  when,  their  con- 
versation ended,  the  two  men  parted  the  best  of  friends, 
and  Henderson  walked  with  Ledyard  to  the  limits  of 
his  domain,  which  was  nearly  half-way  to  the  village. 
Richard  had  refused  all  his  host's  entreaties  to  be 
allowed  to  send  him  home  in  the  carriage,  declaring 
that  after  the  unwonted  exercise  of  the  ride  on  horse- 
back that  morning  it  would  be  better  that  he  should 


158  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

walk  off  the  possible  stiffness  which  might  ensue. 
They  had  compromised,  therefore,  on  an  umbrella, 
which  Millard  insisted  on  his  taking  with  him,  as  the 
sky  looked  threatening  and  gathering  clouds  seemed  to 
portend  rain. 

Indeed,  there  had  been  numerous  thunder-storms  in 
the  neighborhood  for  the  last  three  or  four  days,  and  the 
darkened  sky  over  the  distant  hills  showed  that  it  had 
been  raining  among  them  all  the  morning,  while  the  sun 
was  shining  on  Dundaff. 

Before  Ledyard  had  advanced  a  sixteenth  of  a  mile, 
therefore,  he  was  not  surprised  that  the  rain  began  to 
fall,  but  he  had  cause  to  be  thankful  for  Henderson's 
forethought  a  little  later,  as  the  first  drops  grew  larger 
and  continued  to  come  thicker,  until  they  poured  down 
with  such  force  as  to  make  the  ground  about  him  dis- 
appear for  the  moment  beneath  a  sheet  of  muddy  water. 
The  carriage-road  from  Fernwood  passed  for  three  or 
four  miles  through  a  thick  forest,  and  the  effect  of  the 
pouring  rain  was  so  confusing  in  obliterating  landmarks 
that  Ledyard  missed  the  opening  to  a  bridle-path 
which,  although  a  longer  way  round,  would,  he  thought, 
have  proved  a  shorter  way  home.  As  it  was,  he  saw 
nothing  for  it  but  to  plod  on  in  the  soft  mud,  sinking 
deeper  and  deeper  every  moment,  and  repenting  too  late 
his  refusal  of  a  comfortable  vehicle,  in  which  he  might 
now  be  riding  dry  and  at  ease. 

In  the  midst  of  these  and  even  less  pleasant  reflec- 
tions, he  was  startled  by  the  increased  sound  of  rushing 
water,  which  told  that  he  was  approaching  a  stream,  and 
at  the  same  moment  he  heard  the  noise  of  wheels,  and 
of  a  horse  prancing  about  in  wild  alarm,  while  an  angry 
voice,  conceivably  that  of  the  driver,  was  shouting,  "  Go 
on,  can't  you  ?  What  are  you  stopping  for  ?"  Then 
followed  several  strokes  of  the  whip,  and  more  plunging 
about,  after  which  was  a  sudden  cry  of  "  Stop !  stop ! 
Whoa,  boy,  whoa!  Steady  now, — gently,  gently,"  etc. 
It  did  not  seem  as  if  the  injunction  to  go  gently  were 
being  obeyed,  and,  rounding  a  sudden  turn  in  the 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  159 

road,  Richard  beheld  what  was  ordinarily  a  quiet  stream, 
which  crossed  the  way  at  such  a  modest  depth  as  not 
to  be  thought  worthy  of  any  bridge,  now  swollen  to  a 
rushing,  foaming  torrent,  while  an  open  wagon,  with  its 
hind  wheels,  which  were  nearest  Ledyard,  still  in  the 
muddy  road,  was  at  the  mercy  of  a  much  excited  horse, 
that  stood  snorting  and  trembling  in  mid-stream,  being 
evidently  fearful  of  the  water,  which  was  nearly  as  high 
as  his  body  and  quite  as  high  as  the  body  of  the  wagon. 
The  current  was  indeed  sweeping  by  with  such  force  that 
there  seemed  danger  of  its  carrying  him  off  his  feet  if  his 
efforts  to  struggle  forward  were  continued,  while  two  per- 
sons who  were  seated  in  the  open  carriage  shared  his  agi- 
tation. All  this  Ledyard  saw  at  the  same  moment  that 
he  fancied  he  recognized  the  two  figures  in  the  wagon, 
although  their  backs  were  towards  him.  He  could  also 
see,  what  the  driver  apparently  did  not  perceive,  that 
one  wheel  was  so  locked  by  a  large  loose  stone  in  the 
bed  of  the  stream  as  to  render  it  impossible  to  advance 
or  retreat  without  removing  it,  and  at  the  same  instant 
the  face  of  the  lady  seated  beside  the  driver  was  half 
turned  towards  him.  She  was,  as  he  conjectured,  Nath- 
alie Arkwright. 

Having  realized  the  whole  situation  in  less  time  than 
it  takes  to  describe  it,  Ledyard  sprang  into  the  water, 
and,  seizing  the  loose  stone,  dislodged  it  so  as  to  free 
the  wheel.  Then,  bracing  himself  against  a  rock,  he 
took  the  horse's  head,  and,  calling  both  to  him  and  to 
the  driver  to  "  back,"  exerted  all  the  force  which  could 
be  thrown  into  a  strong  arm,  a  steady  hand,  and  a  firm 
and  quiet  voice  to  extricate  them  from  their  perilous 
situation.  If  at  first  the  discomfited  driver,  who  it 
appeared  was  Mr.  Thomas  Betterton,  looked  almost 
inclined  to  resent  the  interference,  the  effect  upon  the 
horse  was  magical.  The  creature  grew  docile  in  an 
instant,  and  with  head  down  soon  succeeded  in  backing 
the  light  carriage  up  the  shallow  bank,  while  he  him- 
self regained  a  sure  footing  on  the  road. 

It  was  now  evident  that  the  wagon  had  been  so  badly 


l6o  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

broken  at  the  time  that  the  horse  was  being  urged  for- 
ward while  the  wheel  was  locked  that  no  further  progress 
could  safely  be  made  until  it  was  repaired,  and  the 
usually  complacent  Tom  Betterton  dismounted  in  high 
dudgeon. 

"  Was  there  ever  anything  so  stupidly  aggravating 
since  horses  were  made  and  thunder-storms  discovered  ?" 
he  ejaculated,  in  a  disgusted  voice  and  slightly  nasal 
tone,  as  he  assisted  his  companion  to  alight. 

"  I  think  instead  of  complaining,  Mr.  Betterton,"  said 
Nathalie,  "that  we  should  be  very  thankful  to  have 
escaped  without  a  serious  accident,  and  especially  grate- 
ful to  Mr.  Ledyard  for  his  very  timely  aid,"  she  added, 
turning  to  Richard,  beside  whom  she  was  now  standing 
on  the  roadside.  He  took  the  hand  which  she  extended 
to  him  in  token  of  her  thanks,  while  his  eyes  betrayed 
his  honest  pleasure  at  the  meeting. 

Meanwhile,  Mr.  Betterton,  who  seemed  to  be  absorbed 
in  estimating  the  extent  of  the  injury  to  carriage  and 
harness,  suddenly  awoke  from  his  abstraction  to  realize 
that  it  was  Mr.  Ledyard  who  had  encountered  some 
danger,  or  at  least  a  fair  share  of  inconvenience,  in  order 
to  come  to  their  rescue.  Accordingly,  he  said  with 
what  grace  was  in  him,  which  was  not  a  great  deal, — 

"  I'll  be  hanged  if  I'm  not  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Led- 
yard, for  taking  that  ducking  as  you  did  to  give  us  a 
lift,  and  you  helped  us  considerable.  I'm  not  too  thun- 
dering sure  that  we  could  have  got  out  without  you." 

"  I  am  very  much  pleased  to  have  been  able  to  be  of 
service,  I  assure  you,"  said  Ledyard ;  "  but  may  I  ask 
where  you  and  this  young  lady  were  going  in  the  midst  of 
the  storm  ?  You  surely  were  not  driving  for  pleasure." 

"  I  wouldn't  be  too  sure  about  that,"  said  Mr.  Tom 
Betterton,  proceeding  to  tie  together  the  torn  straps  of 
the  harness  with  a  bit  of  twine  from  his  pocket,  and  as- 
suming the  while  a  very  knowing  expression. 

"  We  had  been  to  call  at  Fernwood,"  Nathalie  ex- 
plained. "  Mrs.  Betterton  thought  it  would  be  kind  for 
us  all  to  go  to  congratulate  Mrs.  Henderson  on  her 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  l6l 

recovery  ;  but  when  we  got  there  we  were  told  that  Mrs. 
Henderson  had  just  returned  from  a  journey  and  was 
very  tired,  so  that  she  could  not  see  us.  We  had  only 
driven  a  short  distance  on  our  way  back  when  we  heard 
thunder,  and  Mrs.  Betterton  and  Florry,  who  were  in  the 
big  carriage,  told  the  coachman  to  drive  on  quickly,  and 
called  to  us  to  follow ;  but  the  sun  was  shining  so 
brightly  then  that  I  did  not  think  it  would  really  rain, 
and  when  Mr.  Betterton  proposed  driving  to  the  top 
of  Fern  Hill  to  see  the  view,  I  thought  I  should  like  to 
do  it." 

"  I  knew  we  were  bound  to  get  a  wetting  anyway, 
and  thought  you  might  as  well  see  the  view,"  interposed 
Mr.  Betterton.  "  I  never  counted  on  this  beastly  branch 
of  the  river's  being  so  hard  to  cross  when  it  began  to 
swell." 

"  Then  you  were  going  back  to  Camelot  when  this 
delay  occurred  ?"  asked  Ledyard. 

"  The  question  is  not  where  we  were  going  then,  but 
where  we  are  going  now,"  said  Mr.  Tom  Betterton,  de- 
cidedly. 

"  You  are  right  there,"  said  Richard.  "  I  see  nothing 
for  it  but  to  return  to  Fernwood,  unless,  indeed,  we 
could  find  the  path  which  leads  to  Dundaff  by  a  long 
circuit  and  comes  out  in  the  valley  behind  Miss  Cynthia 
Arkwright's  house.  I  intended  to  go  that  way  myself, 
but  missed  the  opening,  and  did  not  care  to  go  back. 
I  am  sure  I  can  find  it,  and,  if  Miss  Nathalie  will  trust 
herself  to  me,  will  see  her  safely  to  her  sister's  cottage, 
while  you  follow  the  carriage-road  to  Henderson's  with 
your  horse  and  wagon." 

"  Oh,  I  would  so  much  rather  go  to  Cynthia's  than  go 
to  a  strange  house  in  my  very  sorry  plight !"  cried  Nath- 
alie. "  But  why  need  we  turn  back,  Mr.  Ledyard  ? 
Could  we  not  get  to  my  sister's  cottage  more  quickly 
and  easily  by  the  carriage-road  ?" 

"  I  am  very  much  afraid,  Miss  Nathalie,  that  it  is  not 
possible,"  said  Richard,  "on  account  of  the  difficulty  of 
fording  this  stream." 

/  14* 


l62  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

"  I  know  I  don't  intend  to  try  the  possibility,"  said 
Betterton.  "  I  have  got  all  I  can  do  to  get  this  horse 
and  wagon  anywhere  on  land,  without  again  taking  to 
the  water:  so  here  goes  for  Fernwood,  and  I  advise 
you  to  follow.  I  leave  Miss  Nathalie  in  your  charge, 
Mr.  Ledyard,"  he  called  out  as  he  moved  away,  leading 
the  horse  and  broken  carriage. 

"  Do  not  be  troubled  if  I  should  not  come  to  Fern- 
wood,  Mr.  Betterton,"  called  Nathalie  in  return.  "  I  am 
going  to  my  sister's  if  I  can." 

She  had  been  looking  about  her  while  they  were 
speaking,  and  had  noted  the  trunk  of  a  large  tree,  some 
little  distance  down  the  stream,  which  had  so  fallen  as 
to  bridge  the  torrent.  This  she  now  pointed  out  to 
Ledyard. 

"  Do  you  not  think  we  could  cross  on  that  tree  ?"  she 
asked,  anxiously. 

Richard  looked  doubtful.  "  Wait  here  a  moment, 
please,  while  I  try  the  security  with  which  the  trunk 
rests  on  the  banks  of  the  stream,"  he  said,  and,  leaving 
her,  made  a  preliminary  investigation,  which  proved  so 
far  satisfactory  that  he  decided  to  venture  to  cross  with 
Nathalie.  The  girl  seemed  quite  undaunted  by  the 
pelting  rain,  which  continued  to  fall  about  them  as  if 
some  reservoir  had  been  opened  in  the  heavens,  and 
rendered  the  umbrella  which  he  was  still  struggling  to 
hold  over  her  head,  as  they  made  their  way  through  the 
woods,  almost  useless. 

Soon  they  reached  the  spot  where  the  mighty  tree  had 
fallen,  with  its  roots  in  air  and  its  giant  arms  extended 
despairingly.  The  leaves  were  still  unwithered,  and  the 
look  of  strength  and  vigor  in  the  outstretched  branches 
was  more  striking  in  its  downfall  than  it  might  have  been 
in  life  and  health. 

"  What  a  grand  creation  a  great  tree  like  this  is !" 
exclaimed  Richard,  impulsively,  as  he  stood  on  the 
massive  trunk  and  held  out  his  hand  to  his  companion 
to  help  her  to  gain  a  like  position. 

"Is  it  not?"  responded  Nathalie.     "Do  you  know  I 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  163 

was  just  thinking  that  we  are  taking  rather  a  liberty 
in  using  it  for  a  bridge  ?"  As  she  spoke,  she  climbed 
lightly  to  his  side,  and  they  stood  still  for  a  moment, 
during  which  they  could  feel  the  vibration  of  the  huge 
trunk  from  the  force  of  the  water  which  swept  against  it. 

They  seemed  thus  to  be  feeling  the  pulse  of  the 
stream,  which  was  all  the  stronger  from  the  fact  that  at 
this  point  the  wooded  hill  began  gradually  to  sweep 
downwards  towards  the  river  Osceola,  of  which  this 
mountain  torrent  was  a  tributary,  and  the  current  gained 
in  swiftness  with  each  descending  foot. 

"  Do  you  think  the  bridge  is  quite  safe,  Mr.  Led- 
yard  ?"  asked  Nathalie  presently,  in  an  awed  tone. 

"  That  is  what  I  took  upon  me  to  discover  before  I 
allowed  you  to  trust  yourself  to  it,"  said  Richard. 
"  The  only  danger  is  lest  your  feet  slip  on  the  wet  bark." 

At  this  moment  there  came  a  flash  of  lightning,  fol- 
lowed by  a  loud  clap  of  thunder.  The  girl  turned  very 
white  and  began  to  tremble.  Instinctively  he  put  out 
his  arm  to  shield  her  from  falling,  and  in  the  shock  of 
her  alarm  she  turned  and  clung  to  it. 

"  I  am  afraid  this  is  a  little  worse  than  you  expected," 
said  Richard,  gently,  and,  in  spite  of  himself,  a  tender 
inflection  seemed  to  pass  into  his  voice. 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  answered,  "  I  am  all  right ;  really,  I 
don't  know  why  I  was  frightened,  but  the — the  lightning 
came  so  suddenly,  and  somehow  I  have  always  been 
timid  about  lightning." 

He  had  taken  away  his  arm  as  soon  as  he  saw  that 
she  could  stand  without  it,  but  perhaps  some  of  his 
admiration  may  have  shone  out  in  his  face,  for  as  she 
withdrew  her  hand  a  faint  shell-pink  flush  mounted  over 
her  delicately-moulded  cheek,  which,  in  spite  of  the  fall- 
ing rain,  the  rising  wind,  the  gray  shadows  of  the  clouds, 
and  the  roar  of  the  swollen  stream,  did  not  escape  his 
notice.  He  now  proceeded  to  pass  her  and  walk  out  a 
few  steps  over  the  rushing  water,  whence  he  held  out  a 
hand  to  her  to  follow,  bracing  himself  at  the  same  time 
with  one  arm  round  a  perpendicular  branch  of  the  tree. 


164  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

For  a  moment  she  still  shrank,  looking  doubtfully  at  the 
wet  tree-trunk,  and  then  up  to  him  for  encouragement. 

"  There  is  still  time  to  turn  back,  if  you  would  rather 
not  try  it,"  said  Ledyard ;  but,  although  very  unlike  her 
older  sister,  evidently,  in  her  feeling  about  thunder- 
storms, as  Richard  noted  with  inward  amusement, 
Nathalie  Arkwright  was  like  Cynthia  in  this,  that  she 
would  not  turn  back  from  anything  which  she  had  vol- 
untarily undertaken,  unless  she  were  forced  to  do  it  by 
necessity,  and  nothing  could  have  been  more  calculated 
to  rouse  the  obstinacy  of  her  nature  than  this  consid- 
erate tone  of  concession  to  her  possible  weakness.  She 
determined  that  she  would  show  Ledyard  that  she  was 
not  really  afraid  to  cross,  although  just  now  it  would 
seem  that  appearances  were  rather  against  her.  Accord- 
ingly she  answered,  with  some  pride,  that  she  had  no 
idea  of  turning  back,  and,  bravely  placing  her  hand  in 
his,  walked  steadily  forward  to  meet  him.  It  was  not  so 
bad,  after  all,  when  one  really  stood  above  the  rushing 
torrent,  as  it  looked  in  advance,  and,  besides,  Nathalie's 
spirit  was  up  now,  and  she  would  rather  die  than  show 
dismay.  She  felt  secure  enough  as  long  as  she  stood 
still,  in  spite  of  the  increased  vibration  of  the  tree-trunk, 
as  the  flood  beneath  it  continued  to  swell.  She  waited 
with  apparent  calmness  for  Ledyard  to  find  another 
point  of  vantage  whence  to  hold  out  again  a  helping 
hand,  and  as  she  stood  thus  holding  on  to  the  strong 
tree-branch  which  he  had  relinquished  in  her  favor,  her 
dress  of  dark-blue  serge  blown  back  by  the  wind,  all  wet 
and  torn  with  climbing,  and  her  naturally  curling  hair, 
soaked  with  rain,  escaping  from  her  straw  hat  in  wild 
rebellion,  she  burst  into  a  merry  fit  of  laughter  at  her 
own  dishevelled  appearance,  as  though  to  prove  to  him 
how  free  she  was  from  fear. 

"  What  a  guy  I  must  look  like !"  she  exclaimed. 
"  Even  one  of  my  gloves  is  torn  off.  It's  rather  fortu- 
nate that  I  gave  up  the  plan  of  making  a  second  call  on 
Mrs.  Henderson." 

"You  look  more  presentable  than  I  do,  I  imagine," 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  165 

returned  Richard,  who  had,  indeed,  succeeded  in  soiling 
his  coat  and  mashing  in  his  soft  hat,  so  that  he  had  no 
longer  a  very  clerical  appearance.  "  I  should  be  apt  to 
shock  any  one  of  my  worthy  parishioners  who  chanced 
to  see  me  just  now,  should  I  not  ?" 

"  You  do  look  rather  disreputable,"  she  admitted,  with 
mischievous  enjoyment  of  the  absurdity  of  the  situation, 
which  she  seemed  to  take  pleasure  in  prolonging,  for 
she  had  been  aware  for  some  moments  of  his  outstretched 
hand  ready  to  help  her  forward,  but  had  not  thought  fit 
to  avail  herself  of  the  invitation. 

"  Do  you  think  we  can  possibly  get  home  without 
being  seen  ?"  she  continued,  straightening  her  hat  on  her 
head  as  she  spoke,  as  an  excuse  for  delay. 

"  I  think  we  shall  never  get  home  at  all,"  said  Rich- 
ard, "  unless  you  will  come  over  this  stream.  Darkness 
will  overtake  us,  and  we  shall  not  be  able  to  see  our  way, 
which  would  be  much  worse  than  being  seen." 

"  Well,  I  am  coming  now  !"  she  answered,  stretching 
her  hand  towards  his.  The  tree,  which  was  supported 
on  its  roots  at  one  end,  rested  by  its  branches  on  the 
opposite  bank,  and  as  the  main  trunk  was  thus  raised 
higher  at  the  farther  end  by  the  fact  that  its  branches 
were  longer  than  its  roots,  they  were  now  about  to  pass 
over  the  highest  part  of  their  natural  bridge.  Ledyard, 
who  was  watching  her  with  great  anxiety,  noticed  that 
Nathalie's  face  again  grew  pale.  Could  it  be  that  she 
was  losing  her  head  ?  She  put  out  her  other  hand  to 
balance  herself  as  she  slowly  advanced,  and  then  he 
suddenly  saw  her  close  her  eyes  tightly,  as  though  to 
shut  out  the  sight  of  the  water  beneath. 

"  Stop !"  he  shouted.  "  Look  where  you  put  your 
feet,  or  you  will  surely  slip  !"  And  even  while  the  warning 
was  being  uttered  she  did  slip,  swayed  for  a  moment 
wildly  from  side  to  side,  and  would  have  been  precipi- 
tated into  the  rushing  stream,  but  that  Ledyard  leaned 
quickly  forward  and  caught  her  in  his  arms.  "  Keep 
quiet !"  he  said,  authoritatively.  "  If  you  struggle,  we  shall 
both  go  in."  And  she  was  quiet.  She  had  indeed  made 


1 66  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

a  faint  movement  of  recoil  as  she  felt  his  arms  close  round 
her,  but  when  he  spoke  she  became  absolutely  still.  He 
steadied  himself  a  moment  against  another  outstretched 
branch,  and  then  set  off  very  slowly  but  firmly,  testing 
each  step  as  he  half  walked,  half  climbed,  sometimes  sup- 
porting his  burden  with  one  arm,  sometimes  with  both, 
until  the  opposite  bank  was  gained. 

When  all  was  safe,  he  drew  a  long  breath,  and,  gently 
seating  his  companion  on  the  tree-trunk,  sprang  to  the 
ground  at  her  feet.  "  Here  we  are  once  more  on  firm 
land,"  he  said,  cheerfully.  "How  glad  you  must  be!" 
Then,  as  she  did  not  speak,  he  added,  "  You  will  forgive 
me,  I  trust,  if  I  spoke  too  dictatorially  ?  I  saw  no  other 
way  to  help  you." 

Still  she  said  nothing.  She  had  turned  her  head  away, 
and  venturing  to  glance  at  her  averted  face,  he  saw  that 
her  cheeks  were  once  more  covered  by  that  fine  shade 
of  pink,  while  her  eyes  were  like  blue  fire. 

"  Have  I  offended  you  ?"  he  asked,  a  little  proudly. 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  said,  hastily,  dropping  her  eyes ;  "  but  I 
know  you  think  me  a  coward." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  he  replied,  "  I  think  you  have 
shown  great  moral  courage  throughout  a  trying  ordeal; 
and  compared  to  moral  courage  I  do  not  value  physical 
courage  at  a  pin's  head." 

"  I  do  not  think  that  I  know  what  moral  courage  is," 
she  said,  doubtfully.  She  had  raised  her  eyes  a  little, 
but  still  she  did  not  look  at  him. 

"  What  I  mean  by  moral  courage  is  the  strength  to 
force  one's  self  into  doing  anything  which  one  may 
think  it  wise  or  right  to  do,  even  against  one's  inclina- 
tion," explained  Ledyard.  "  That  is  what  I  think  you 
did." 

"  Say  rather  what  I  tried  to  do,  but  I  did  not  succeed. 
What  would  have  become  of  me  had  you  not  been 
there  ?" 

"  It  is  hardly  worth  while  to  speculate  about  that,"  he 
said,  lightly.  "  Won't  you  take  my  arm  now  and  let  us 
be  getting  out  of  the  woods,  lest  Mrs.  Betterton,  or  some 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  l6/ 

other  such  terrible  person,  should  fall  foul  of  us  with  a 
long  stick  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  about  other  people,"  said  Nathalie, 
demurely, "  but  I  am  rather  more  afraid  of  Mrs.  Better- 
ton's  tongue  /"  At  which  they  both  laughed. 

They  were  not  long  in  gaining  the  main  road,  along 
which  the  rest  of  the  walk  was  simple  enough,  except 
for  the  length  of  it.  The  rain  was  still  falling,  but  more 
quietly.  Some  light  might  still  penetrate  the  leaden  sky 
beyond  the  shadows  of  the  trees,  but  here  all  was  dim 
with  the  drip,  drip,  of  the  water  falling  from  the  leaves 
and  the  constant  splash  of  their  own  feet  through  the 
mud.  The  length  of  the  way  made  Ledyard  fear  that  his 
companion  would  be  overcome  by  fatigue,  and  he  cast 
several  inquiring  glances  at  her  in  the  gathering  dark- 
ness, but  by  some  strange  freak  of  nature  the  vigor  and 
elasticity  of  her  step  seemed  only  to  increase  as  they 
went  onward. 

"Are  you  not  tired  ?"  he  asked,  again  offering  the  arm 
which  she  had  declined. 

"Thank  you,  I  am  not  really  tired  at  all,  nor  do  I 
need  your  arm.  Indeed,  I  am  not  always  such  a  help- 
less person  as  I  must  have  seemed  to-day.  Are  you 
quite  sure  that  you  do  not  despise  me,  in  spite  of  all 
that  about  moral  courage?"  she  asked,  in  a  mocking 
tone,  turning  suddenly  to  meet  his  gaze;  but  seeing 
nothing  there  except  solicitude  for  her  and  a  great  de- 
sire to  soothe  her  wounded  sensibility,  she  softened 
perceptibly.  "  You  have  been  very  kind  to  me,  very  !" 
she  asserted,  dropping  her  eyes  again,  and,  to  his  in- 
tense surprise,  she  accepted  the  arm  as  she  said  it  which 
a  moment  before  she  had  rejected.  He  was  not  learned 
in  the  sweet  contrarieties  of  women,  but  more  than 
satisfied  that  she  continued  thus  to  honor  him  for  the 
rest  of  their  walk.  She  was  very  silent  after  this,  to  be 
sure,  although  he  talked  on  many  subjects,  but  he  was 
content.  Indeed,  some  wild,  foolish  fancy  swept  through 
his  brain  that  if  she  were  never  to  speak  to  him  again 
he  had  been  amply  rewarded  for  having  twice  risked 


1 68  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

his  limbs,  if  not  his  life,  to  save  her  from  a  threatened 
danger. 

It  seemed  to  them  both  to  last  a  long  while,  this 
monotonous  walk  in  the  semi-gloom,  with  the  sounds 
that  were  ever  repeating  themselves,  and  yet  one  at  least 
of  them  would  have  been  glad  to  have  it  last  longer, 
when  they  emerged  upon  the  hill-side  and  were  approach- 
ing Cynthia's  house. 

But  it  was  not  fated  that  Nathalie  should  take  refuge 
with  her  sister  on  this  occasion,  for  they  were  met,  when 
almost  opposite  the  cottage,  by  the  Betterton  carriage, 
which  had,  as  they  were  told,  been  sent  back  for  "  Miss 
Nathalie  and  Master  Tom,"  and  it  seemed  wisest  that 
Nathalie  should  not  refuse  its  shelter. 

"  Good-by,  Mr.  Ledyard." 

"  Good-night,  Miss  Nathalie."  For  one  moment  he 
held  her  soft  little  hand,  and  then  the  moment  was 
passed.  The  hand  was  gone.  It  had  become  a  mere 
memory,  and  the  sound  of  the  wheels  of  the  Betterton 
carriage  was  dying  away  in  the  distance.  Ledyard 
began  to  feel  a  little  stiff,  and  uncomfortably  wet  and 
cold,  and  was  not  sorry  when  a  ten  minutes'  farther 
tramp  had  brought  him  to  his  own  fireside. 


CHAPTER    XXI. 

MISTY  memories  of  a  sweet  downcast  face,  a  rushing 
stream,  damp  woods,  and  a  ragged  regiment  of  factory- 
boys  haunted  Ledyard's  sleep  that  night;  and  in  the 
midst  of  them  he  would  start  to  see  another  face  looking 
suddenly  out  on  him  between  flowering  plants  flanked 
with  a  background  of  dark-green  shrubbery,  as  he  had 
seen  it  that  day  at  Fernwood. 

Thanks  to  his  youth  and  natural  vigor  of  constitution, 
he  did  not  feel  any  serious  ill  effect  from  the  cold  bath 
which  Mr.  Tom  Betterton  commended  him  for  taking, 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  169 

nor  from  the  long  exposure  to  wind  and  rain  in  his  wet 
clothes,  but  he  was  conscious  of  a  slight  hoarseness  in 
his  throat,  which  led  him  to  fear  that  his  voice  might 
be  incapacitated  for  the  delivery  of  his  sermon  the  next 
day  unless  he  were  careful,  and  he  consequently  resigned 
himself  to  staying  in-doors  Saturday  morning,  trying  to 
turn  his  mind  to  the  preparation  of  this  same  discourse, 
but  with  unusually  poor  success.  Indeed,  the  impor- 
tunate visions  of  his  dreams  would  not  be  dispelled  in 
his  waking  hours,  and  their  shadowy  vagueness  was 
now  replaced  by  a  distinct  dread  of  evil  consequences 
to  himself  and  others  which  might  arise  from  one  dis- 
covery he  had  made. 

As  he  sat  thus  lost  in  thought,  his  head  resting  on 
his  hand,  and  his  brow  contracted  with  anxious  musing, 
he  was  startled  by  a  faint  tap  at  his  study  window,  and, 
springing  up,  beheld  Mrs.  Henderson  standing  just  out- 
side it,  evidently  trying  to  attract  his  attention  without 
being  seen  by  any  one  else.  As  soon  as  she  had  done 
so,  she  pointed  to  the  house  door  with  an  imperious 
gesture,  by  which  she  indicated  that  she  wished  him  to 
open  it  for  her  immediately.  Ledyard  did  as  commanded, 
and  ushered  her  silently  through  the  vestibule  into  his 
little  study,  where  she  seated  herself  in  his  large  leather- 
covered  arm-chair  and  began  at  once  to  speak. 

"  You  were  surprised,  of  course,  when  you  saw  me 
yesterday?"  she  asked,  in  a  dry,  hard  voice;  and  then, 
before  he  had  time  to  answer,  continued,  "  I  was  able 
to  see  that  you  were,  and  that  you  could  not,  of  course, 
have  recognized  me  before.  I  knew  you  did  not  know 
of  my  marriage  to  Lieutenant  Henderson.  I  have  in- 
tentionally kept  you  ignorant  of  that — and — and  of  other 
things,  Dick." 

"  Of  your  existence,  for  instance  ?"  said  Ledyard,  coldly. 

"  Oh,  as  for  that,"  she  replied,  "  I  did  not  care" 

"  I  know  you  did  not  care  for  me,  if  that  is  what  you 
mean  ;  but  did  you  not  fear  me  ?" 

"  I  have  always  been  a  little  afraid  of  you,"  she  con- 
ceded, with  a  slight  smile,  a  change  of  tone,  and  a  faint 
H  15 


I/O  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

effort  towards  propitiation.  If  she  had  looked  in  his 
face  she  would  have  seen  it  grow  harder,  but  she  did 
not.  She  was  bent  on  saying  her  say  in  as  little  time 
as  possible.  "  What  I  have  come  to  you  for  now  is 
this,"  she  continued.  "  My  husband  has  taken  a  great 
liking  to  you.  He  insists  upon  asking  you  to  dinner. 
He  wants  to  know  you  better  and  help  you  with  your 
plans,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  Now,  for  Heaven's  sake, 
do  not  refuse  to  let  him  because  you  have  discovered 
who  I  am.  That  would  be  the  undoing  of  me,  for  it 
would  be  sure  to  bring  suspicion.  And  still  less  must 
you  speak  to  me  as  if  you  had  known  me  before.  Do 
you  hear?  He  knows  nothing  of  your  existence, — 
nothing  of  what  happened  in  Baltimore,  or  that  there 
was  ever  any  other  man  who  cared  for  me  but  him- 
self. Mr.  Neil,  who  was  the  only  person  who  could 
have  told  him,  went  directly  to  Montana,  and  you  know 
the  rest." 

"And  you  actually  wish  to  persuade  me  to  accept 
his  hospitality  and  to  keep  this  secret  from  him  ? — to  pre- 
tend that  you  and  I  are  strangers  ?"  asked  Richard,  sternly. 

"  Why  not  ?  What  possible  good  will  it  do  to  tell 
him  ?  You  would  merely  be  shattering  the  whole  happi- 
ness of  my  present  life." 

"  I  do  not  see  that,"  said  Ledyard ;  "  or,  rather,  I 
do  see  that  for  me  to  tell  him  that  which  you  had  kept 
from  him  might  be  a  risk;  but  I  think  you  are  veiy 
unwise  indeed  not  to  tell  him  the  truth  yourself." 

"  Tell  him  now !  Tell  him  that  I  have  deceived  him 
all  these  years  !  How  could  I  ?" 

"  But  why  did  you  not  tell  him  in  the  beginning  ?" 

"  Oh,  you  little  know,  you  little  know  !"  she  cried, 
burying  her  face  in  her  hands.  "  If  I  had  told  him,  he 
never  would  have  married  me !" 

Her  evident  distress  seemed  to  touch  Richard. 

"  Surely  he  would,  Posey,  since  he  loved  you,"  he 
said,  gently,  and  laid  his  hand  upon  her  bowed  head. 

"  Don't !  don't !"  she  cried,  passionately.  "  I  cannot 
bear  it !  I  know  better  than  you  do  what  I  am  talking 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  IJl 

about.  If  I  had  told  him,  he  never  would  have  married 
me;  and  if  I  told  him  now,  I  should  surely  lose  his  love." 

"  I  think  you  are  mistaken,"  said  Ledyard.  "  At  any 
rate,  it  is  far  better  to  tell  him  than  to  run  the  risk 
of  his  finding  it  out  from  some  one  else  or  by  some 
accident." 

"  There  is  no  one  else  except  yourself,  and  no  acci- 
dent is  likely." 

"  You  will  be  apt  to  create  emergencies  through  your 
own  nervousness  and  impulsive  habit  of  yielding  to 
every  whim.  What  induced  you  to  come  and  stare 
at  me  yesterday,  for  instance?  That  was  in  itself  a 
danger." 

"  I  know  it  was  ;  but  I  was  so  anxious  for  a  word  with 
you,  and  I  did  not  know  how  to  obtain  it  unless  I  could 
give  you  a  sign  which  would  lead  you  to  meet  me 
before  you  went  from  the  place.  I  thought  it  could  be 
managed." 

"  To  meet  you  secretly  on  your  husband's  grounds  ? 
How  could  there  be  a  greater  risk,  if  one  only  looks  at 
it  from  the  stand-point  of  expediency  ?  But  surely  there 
are  other  considerations  which  might  have  occurred  to 
you." 

"  And  was  it  not  a  greater  risk  for  me  to  come  here  ? 
I  dreaded  to  do  so  very  much.  Suppose  I  had  found 
some  one  with  you  ?  Suppose,  now,  that  I  should  be 
seen  leaving  the  house  ?" 

Ledyard  colored  crimson.  He  sprang  from  his  seat 
beside  her  and  began  pacing  angrily  to  and  fro  in  the 
small  space  at  his  disposal. 

"  What  is  the  matter  now  ?"  she  asked,  with  a  pro- 
voking smile.  Indeed,  in  proportion  as  he  had  become 
excited  she  seemed  to  have  regained  her  calmness  and 
composure.  "  You  remind  me  of  a  tiger  in  a  me- 
nagerie," she  said.  "  Do  not  glare  at  me  so  :  I  am  not 
your  keeper!" 

"  You  are  my  tormentor,  for  the  moment,"  he  said,  in 
a  very  low  tone ;  "  but  you  shall  not  be  for  long, 
Posey." 


1/2  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  she  asked,  defiantly. 

"  I  mean  that  I  will  not  be  placed  by  you  in  the  false 
and  hateful  position  in  which  you  wish  to  place  me." 

"  You  will  betray  me,  then  ?" 

"  Not  if  I  can  help  it.  I  will  give  you  time  to  make 
your  own  confession,  and,  if  possible,  to  gain  forgiveness 
of  your  husband.  But  it  was  not  my  fault  or  by  my  ad- 
vice that  you  hid  this  thing  from  him  when  you  married 
him,  that  you  chose  to  keep  him  ignorant  of  my  exist- 
ence, or  to  leave  me  uninformed  of  your  change  of 
name ;  and  I  will  not  bear  the  consequences  in  any  par- 
ticular way  which  happens  to  suit  your  fancy.  I  give 
you  fair  warning.  Now,  good-by." 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?"  she  asked,  in  apprehension, 
seeing  him  take  his  hat  in  his  hand. 

"  I  am  going  to  see  you  safely  out,  if  it  may  be,"  he 
said,  decisively.  "  I  do  not  choose  to  prolong  this  inter- 
view, or  to  meet  you  again  until  your  husband  knows  all." 

"  And  what  if  I  do  not  choose  to  tell  him  ?"  she 
asked,  rising  swiftly  from  her  seat  and  placing  herself 
before  Ledyard. 

"  Then  I  shall  have  to  forego  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
him  either." 

"  Perhaps  it  is  better  so,"  she  said,  thoughtfully,  half 
to  herself,  looking  away  from  him,  as  though  consider- 
ing this  view  of  the  situation  for  the  first  time.  "  You 
promise  to  do  nothing  of  your  own  accord  to  undeceive 
him  ?"  she  asked,  bringing  her  eyes  back  to  his  face. 

"  I  will  bind  myself  to  no  promise,"  he  said,  "  beyond 
that  which  I  have  already  made, — to  give  you  time." 

"  How  much  time  ?" 

"  I  will  give  you  one  week  from  to-day,  and  in  the  in 
terval,  although  I  expect  to  see  your  husband  often,  1 
shall  say  nothing.  I  shall  not,  of  course,  see  you  ;  but 
let  me  remind  you  that  the  more  quickly  you  tell  him 
the  whole  truth  now  the  better  for  both  of  us.  If  you 
do  not  tell  him  the  whole  truth,  you  must  tell  him  about 
me,  or  I  shall  tell  him  who  I  am  myself.  Your  finding 
me  lunching  at  your  own  home  so  unexpectedly  on 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  173 

your  return  yesterday  will  make  a  reason  for  your 
speaking  noiu,  after  being  silent  for  so  long;  and  every 
hour  that  you  postpone  the  confession  will  render  it 
more  difficult."  He  ended,  noticing  as  he  did  so  that 
she  had  grown  pale  while  he  was  speaking. 

"  Oh,  Dick  !  Dick  !"  she  cried.  "  Spare  me  !  Spare 
him  !  You  do  not  know,  you  cannot  know,  how  I  love 
him !" 

She  threw  up  her  hands  with  a  despairing  gesture, 
lifting  her  eyes  to  his  in  supplication,  but  Richard  re- 
mained unmoved. 

-  "  No,"  he  said,  "  I  do  not  know.  To  me  it  seems 
that  if  you  loved  him  truly  you  could  not  have  so  de- 
ceived him;  but  it  is  not  for  me  to  judge." 

"  Most  true,  it  is  not,"  she  answered,  in  a  quieter  tone ; 
"  but  \iyou  are  so  severe  with  me,  how  can  he  forgive  ?" 

"  God  may  put  it  in  his  heart,  if  you  tell  him  all  that 
he  has  a  right  to  know,"  returned  Ledyard,  very  sol- 
emnly. "  As  for  me,  I  will  try  to  do  as  I  would  be  done 
by.  Now  go  in  peace."  He  drew  her  cloak  gently 
about  her,  led  her  towards  the  door,  and  held  it  open 
while  she  passed  out,  looking  up  and  down  the  road  as 
he  did  so,  to  be  sure  that  there  was  no  one  within  sight, 
while,  pulling  her  veil  over  her  face,  she  descended  the 
hill  and  was  soon  lost  to  view. 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

IT  certainly  was  most  unlucky  for  Ledyard  that  one 
worthy  Mrs.  Straincoat,  a  gentlewoman  in  reduced  cir- 
cumstances, as  she  declared  herself  to  be,  and  also  the 
best-known  dressmaker  in  Dundaff,  should  have  hap- 
pened to  live  on  the  same  hill  as  himself,  only  a  short 
distance  to  the  left  of  his  dwelling,  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  road  which  led  on  to  the  church.  Mrs.  Strain- 
coat's  little  house  stood  facing  the  road,  with  its  back  to 


174  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

the  broad  view  of  the  river,  the  valley,  the  irregular 
village,  and  the  hills  beyond,  which  was  so  fine  from 
the  rectory  windows,  and  thus  was  it  all  the  more  natu- 
ral that  the  attention  of  any  one  who  was  sitting  in 
Mrs.  Straincoat's  parlor  should  have  been  occupied 
with  those  windows  themselves. 

It  must,  however,  have  been  part  of  the  ill  tide  of 
fortune  which  seemed  to  be  sweeping  over  Richard  at 
this  moment  that  Mrs.  and  Miss  Betterton  should  have 
chanced  to  be  visiting  their  dressmaker  just  at  the  time 
that  Mrs.  Henderson  came  and  tapped  at  his  study 
window.  If  that  lady  had  only  chosen  to  brave  the 
encounter  of  his  capable  and  respectable  housekeeper, 
Mrs.  Fowler,  and  let  herself  be  admitted  to  his  presence 
in  the  ordinary  manner,  there  would  have  been  nothing 
special  for  Mrs.  Betterton  to  comment  upon  in  the  visit, 
except  that  it  denoted  a  degree  of  friendly  acquaint- 
ance between  Mrs.  Henderson  and  the  young  rector 
of  which  she  had  not  previously  been  aware.  There 
was,  of  course,  no  reason  why  a  lady  of  Mrs.  Hender- 
son's position  should  not  call  on  the  clergyman.  She 
might  have  been  anxious  to  lay  before  him  some  tale  of 
suffering  or  distress. 

Mrs.  Betterton  need  not  have  had  the  slightest  clue  to 
what  really  passed  within  those  four  study  walls  if  Mrs. 
Henderson,  in  her  great  desire  to  place  it  beyond  the 
power  of  the  village  gossips  to  discuss  the  object  of  her 
visit  to  Ledyard,  or  even  to  learn  of  its  occurrence,  had 
not  determined  to  refrain  from  summoning  the  servant, 
to  whom  she  would  be  obliged  to  give  her  name,  and 
preferred  to  compel  Richard  Ledyard  to  open  the  door 
for  her  himself. 

She  was  probably  not  aware  of  how  long  the  inter- 
view had  lasted.  She  knew  in  a  vague  sort  of  way  that 
it  was  near  eleven  o'clock  when  she  left  home,  and  she 
remembered  hearing  the  factory-bells  announce  the  hour 
of  noon  while  she  and  Ledyard  were  talking,  for  at  the 
sound  she  assured  herself  with  satisfaction  that  it  would 
be  an  hour  yet  before  her  husband  would  leave  the 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  1/5 

mills,  according  to  his  custom,  to  return  to  Fernwood. 
She  would  be  at  home  before  him,  she  promised  herself, 
for  she  had  left  her  pony-carriage  in  the  village  in 
charge  of  the  wise  old  Malachi,  whom  Henderson  in- 
sisted that  she  should  take  with  her  as  driver  ever  since 
her  accident.  She  knew  that  it  would  be  easy  to  get 
back  to  Fernwood  in  less  than  an  hour,  while  she  was 
supposed  to  be  at  that  very  Mrs.  Straincoat's  in  whose 
neighboring  dwelling  the  scandalized  Mrs.  Betterton  was 
sitting  in  judgment  and  counting  each  moment  which 
she  let  go  by. 

She  and  Florence  saw  her  come  out  at  last,  escorted 
by  Mr.  Ledyard,  who  was  seen  to  glance  up  and  down 
the  road  as  he  held  the  door  open.  They  saw  her  say 
good-by  "  with  as  little  ceremony  as  a  school-girl  might 
have  done,"  as  Mrs.  Betterton  expressed  it,  and  when 
they  had  beheld  her  fairly  run  down  the  path  which  led 
to  the  village  and  thus  vanish  from  view,  they  said  a 
few  hasty  words  to  Mrs.  Straincoat  as  to  the  neces- 
sity of  their  coming  the  next  Monday  to  try  on  their 
dresses,  and  then  the  carriage  came  for  them,  and  they 
began  to  discuss  what  they  had  seen,  as  they  drove 
away. 

There  was  sincere  regret,  amazement,  and  trouble  of 
mind  on  the  part  of  Florence  Betterton.  She  would 
have  been  simply  incredulous  of  the  whole  thing  if  she 
had  not  happened  to  see  it.  But  there  was  to  Mrs.  Bet- 
terton the  most  radiant  delight  in  thus  finding  cause 
for  censure  at  once  in  the  curer  of  her  soul  and  in  the 
wife  of  her  husband's  partner,  who  had  not  been  as 
cautious  as  was  prudent  in  responding  to  Mrs.  Bettei- 
ton's  patronizing  advances,  and  was  just  now  especially 
in  her  black-books  for  venturing  to  deny  herself  to  them 
all  on  the  previous  day,  when  they  had  taken  the  trouble 
to  drive  the  whole  distance  from  Camelot  to  Fernwood 
to  congratulate  her  on  her  recovery. 

It  was  no  wonder  that  such  tactless  disregard  of  good 
feeling  should  rankle  in  Mrs.  Betterton's  mind,  even  if 
there  had  been  no  fright  and  thunder-storm  into  the 


176  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

bargain.  She  said  much  to  Florence  in  a  deeply  grieved 
tone,  as  they  drove  along,  about  the  wicked  ways  of  the 
world,  and  the  suffering  caused  to  the  few  high-minded 
persons  who  were  left  in  it,  by  the  spectacle  of  so  much 
depravity;  but  her  daughter's  rejoinders, although  indica- 
tive of  equal  disturbance  of  mind,  were  not  entirely 
sympathetic,  and  she  craved  a  wider  audience,  which  she 
found  at  Camelot.  She  was  not  able,  however,  fully 
to  avail  herself  of  it  during  the  half-hour  devoted  to 
luncheon,  owing  to  the  dampening  presence  of  her  hus- 
band. Mr.  Betterton  would  not  lend  a  patient  ear,  she 
knew,  to  openly  derogatory  criticism  of  the  wife  of  his 
partner.  He  was  much  too  prudent. 

It  was  not,  therefore,  until  luncheon  was  over,  and 
Nathalie  Arkwright,  who  had  come  in  from  playing 
lawn-tennis  with  Mr.  Tom  Betterton  just  before  that 
meal,  was  seated  with  Florence  and  herself  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, that  Mrs.  Betterton's  tongue  was  fairly  let 
loose.  It  was  worth  everything  to  talk  to  a  person  who 
knew  nothing  of  their  morning's  adventure  and  to  have 
the  opportunity  of  describing  all  that  they  had  seen, — 
that  is,  the  meeting  and  the  parting,  with  any  additions 
which  Florence  might  let  pass,  and  such  comments  as 
pleased  herself. 

"  A  most  improper  proceeding  from  beginning  to 
end,"  she  concluded,  indignantly,  "  and  that  is  all  that  I 
can  say  about  it."  But  she  intended  to  say  a  great  deal 
more. 

"  Oh,  no,  not  improper,  mamma.  That  is  too  strong 
a  word.  We  certainly  saw  nothing  improper." 

"  It  was  shockingly  unconventional,  my  dear,  to  say 
the  least.  In  a  clergyman  I  call  it  highly  improper." 

"  I  can  never  quite  understand  what  mamma's  view  of 
a  clergyman  is,"  said  Miss  Florence,  speaking  to  the 
ceiling  with  a  lofty  air  of  indifference  such  as  she  was 
very  far  from  feeling. 

"  And,  pray,  why  is  that,  Florry  ?"  asked  her  mother, 
sharply. 

"  Because  you  seem  to  assume  that  whenever  a  clergy- 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  1 77 

man  does  anything  which  is  in  the  slightest  degree 
questionable,  he  must  do  it  with  the  worst  possible  in- 
tentions, because  he  is  a  clergyman." 

"  Good  for  you,  Florry  !  I  declare  if  that  is  not  just  like 
ma !"  cried  her  brother  Tom,  who  had  come  into  the  room. 

"  If  you  mean  by  that  very  foolish  assertion  to  try  to 
make  Miss  Nathalie  believe  that  I  particularly  dislike 
young  men  when  they  happen  to  be  clergymen,  and 
criticise  them  accordingly,  I  should  think  you  had  suc- 
ceeded, Florence,  in  saying  what  you  mean,"  said  Mrs. 
Betterton,  with  freezing  dignity,  "  but  if  you  meant  to 
tell  the  truth,  you  have  been  a  little  less  successful." 

"  How  absurd,  mamma  !  Of  course  I  did  not  mean  to 
say  that  you  disliked  Mr.  Ledyard.  I  am  sure  you  do 
not,  in  spite  of  his  rather  independent  way  of  going  on, 
as  if  he  had  a  right  to  do  anything  he  pleased." 

"  And  why  has  he  not  ?"  asked  a  soft  voice,  gentle 
and  low,  such  as  might  have  been  ringing  in  the  memory 
of  poor  King  Lear  when  he  declared  it  to  be  an  excellent 
thing  in  woman.  It  was  the  voice  of  Nathalie  Arkwright. 

"  Why  has  he  not  ?"  cried  Mrs.  Betterton.  "  Because  no 
one  has,  and  least  of  all  a  clergyman.  Oh,  you  need 
not  begin  to  smile  in  that  impertinent  way,  Florry.  I 
can  easily  make  Miss  Nathalie  understand,  if  you  cannot. 
What  I  mean  is,"  she  continued,  turning  towards  their 
guest,  "  that  a  clergyman  is  not  merely  bound  to  avoid 
doing  things  which  he  would  disapprove  of  in  the  mem- 
bers of  his  congregation.  He  should  set  them»an  exam- 
ple, and  he  should  avoid  doing  things  which  might 
shock  or  mislead  them,  whether  the  things  be  necessarily 
bad  or  not.  In  the  present  instance,"  she  continued, 
looking  at  Florence  with  intention,  "  I  consider  that  there 
can  be  no  question  but  what  Mr.  Ledyard  was  guilty  to- 
day of  most  unbecoming  levity.  I  had  suspected  before 
that  he  was  rather  inclined  to  be  a  flirt,  from  the  way 
that  he  seemed  to  have  of  paying  attention  first  to  one 
girl  and  then  to  another,  but  I  did  not  expect  to  surprise 
him  in  the  act  of  flirting  with  a  married  woman." 

There  was  a  dead  pause.     Both  the  other  ladies  in 


1 78  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

the  room  looked  down  and  colored  with  more  or  less 
confusion ;  but  while  to  Florence  Betterton  the  effect  of 
her  mother's  speech  was  so  painful  as  to  prevent  her 
from  saying  anything  in  return,  on  Nathalie  Arkwright's 
calmer  nature,  less  readily  roused  to  anger  and  more 
determined  when  roused,  it  acted  in  an  exactly  opposite 
manner. 

"  The  word  '  flirt'  seems  to  me  a  strange  one  to  apply 
to  so  manly  a  man  as  Mr.  Ledyard,"  she  said,  "  and 
above  all  to  a  clergyman.  I  certainly  have  not  seen 
anything  in  his  conduct  to  justify  it;  and  although  I 
have  met  very  few  clergymen  in  my  life,  and  do  not  pro- 
fess to  know  much  about  them,  I  cannot  help  thinking 
that  if  it  be  true  that  a  clergyman  is  bound  to  be  more 
circumspect  in  his  conduct  than  another  man  on  account 
of  his  high  office,  there  is  some  duty  required  of  other 
people  towards  him  in  return,  and  they  should  not  only 
show  him  as  much  charity  as  they  would  allow  to  one 
another,  but  be  careful  how  they  use  terms  with  regard 
to  him  which  might  effectually  interfere  with  the  result 
of  his  good  influence." 

It  was  an  unusually  long  speech  for  Nathalie  to  make, 
and  she  grew  very  pale  while  she  was  speaking,  from  the 
nervous  effort  which  it  cost  her  to  say  so  much,  and 
above  all  to  say  it  on  this  especial  subject ;  but  she  held 
on  bravely  to  the  end,  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Betterton's  eye 
fixed  upon  her  and  the  magnetically  paralyzing  effect 
which  that  lady  had  the  power  of  producing  on  any  one 
who  ventured  to  oppose  her,  to  the  influence  of  which 
Nathalie  was  particularly  sensitive  on  ordinary  occasions. 

"  Hear !  hear !"  shouted  Mr.  Tom  Betterton,  as  she 
paused  at  last.  "  I  am  with  you  !  Those  are  my  senti- 
ments, Miss  Nathalie,  and  I  almost  think  I  would  be  will- 
ing to  take  an  unpremeditated  '  ducking'  for  you,  as  Mr. 
Ledyard  did,  if  you  would  defend  me  afterwards  with 
half  that  vigor." 

Nathalie  flushed  scarlet  at  this  allusion ;  indeed,  she 
had  had  to  undergo  a  great  deal  of  what  Mr.  Thomas 
called  "  chaffing"  at  his  hands  on  the  subject  of  Led- 


BROKEN  CHORDS,  179 

yard's  timely  rescue  the  day  before,  and  her  subsequent 
long  walk  with  him  in  the  rain,  the  chief  incident  of 
which  she  was  most  thankful  to  feel  to  be  only  known 
to  herself.  Perhaps  she  disliked  to  be  thus  teased  more 
than  she  otherwise  would  have  because  she  perceived 
that  all  such  allusions  were  especially  disagreeable  to  her 
friend.  She  even  noticed  with  some  embarrassment  that 
Florence  did  not  appear  to  feel  towards  her  quite  as 
warmly  since  her  return  to  Camelot,  all  draggled  with 
mud  and  dripping  with  rain,  but  flushed  and  excited,  the 
night  before. 

Could  Miss  Florence  be  secretly  regretting  that  it  had 
not  fallen  to  her  lot  instead  of  Nathalie's  to  be  rescued 
by  Mr.  Ledyard  ?  If  so,  her  friend  never  suspected  it. 
She  had  honestly  believed  that  Florry  felt  the  strong 
interest  which  she  had  professed  to  feel  in  helping  him 
in  his  work,  and  she  had  done  what  she  could  to  forward 
her  in  finding  the  opportunity  she  desired  to  speak  to 
him  about  it,  but  she  had  fancied  nothing  else. 

Now,  to  her  surprise,  as  she  finished  speaking  Florence 
arose,  and,  approaching  her,  put  one  arm  round  her  with 
great  affection,  while  Mrs.  Betterton,  who  seemed  to  be 
driven  to  the  last  pitch  of  endurance  by  this  evidence  on 
her  daughter's  part  that  she,  too,  was  in  sympathy  with 
the  enemy,  delivered  herself  as  follows. 

"  It  is  all  very  well  for  Miss  Nathalie  Arkwright,"  she 
said,  with  bitterness,  "  and  for  you,  Tom,  who  were  not 
there,  and  saw  nothing  of  what  we  saw  this  morning,  to 
try  to  defend  Mr.  Ledyard ;  but  for  you,  Florry,  to  join 
them  in  taking  his  part,  after  that  and  other  things,  I 
call  deplorable.  Have  you  forgotten  that  frightfully 
frivolous  novel  which  you  and  I  saw  him  reading  a  few 
weeks  ago  in  the  railroad  train?  Do  you  not  recall  my 
saying  at  the  time  how  foolish  a  book  it  was  for  any 
one  to  read,  and  that  I  was  not  ready  to  think  it  possible 
that  the  reader  could 'be  Mr.  Ledyard?" 

"  I  remember  you  said  you  had  read  it  yourself, 
mother,"  interposed  Florence,  despairingly. 

"  Oh,  come  now,  ma,  don't  you  think  you  are  coming 


180  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

it  rather  strong  over  the  poor  parson  ?"  inquired  Mr. 
Tom.  "  I  know  I,  for  one,  have  had  enough  of  it,  and  I 
am  going  to  smoke  with  the  governor." 

But  Mrs.  Betterton  took  no  more  heed  of  the  advice 
of  one  of  her  children  than  of  the  protestations  of  the 
other,  and  as  her  son  left  the  room  only  lowered  her 
voice  to  a  more  mysterious  and  awful  tone  to  say,  in 
continuation  of  her  argument,  for  the  benefit  of  her  two 
remaining  auditors,  "  Then,  as  to  Mrs.  Henderson,  if  her 
character  were  one  to  withstand  imputation  the  case 
might  be  less  indefensible  for  Mr.  Ledyard;  but  what  are 
the  facts  ?" 

"  Why,  surely,  mother,  there  is  nothing  to  be  said 
against  the  character  of  Mrs.  Henderson!"  cried  Flor- 
ence, in  dismay. 

"  That  may  or  may  not  be,"  returned  Mrs.  Betterton, 
nodding  very  wisely,  and  inwardly  rejoiced  that  at  last 
she  had  elicited  a  spark  of  response  from  her  daughter. 
"  I  did  not  wish  to  say  anything  about  it  while  your 
brother  was  here,"  she  continued,  "  although  I  suppose 
he  has  heard  it,  of  course,  for  the  truth  is  that  Mrs. 
Henderson  was  an  actress  when  Lieutenant  Henderson 
married  her,  as  every  one  knows." 

"  An  actress  !"  ejaculated  Florence. 

"  Yes,  she  was  an  actress,  and  took  part  in  a  play  a 
week  before  the  marriage  took  place,  as  I  have  been 
told  on  good  authority ;  but  what  her  life  was  before 
that  time  nobody  knows,  except  that  she  had  defied  her 
father  as  a  very  young  girl  and  gone  upon  the  stage. 
Now,  add  to  these  facts  that  Mr.  Ledyard  told  Miss 
Nathalie  that  he  had  been  lunching  at  Fernwood  yes- 
terday, the  very  day,  and  at  the  very  time  that  Mrs. 
Henderson  denied  herself  to  the  ladies  of  this  family, 
and  also  that  when  your  brother  Tom  went  back  with 
the  carriage  and  horse  to  Fernwood  he  was  admitted  to 
the  presence  of  Mrs.  Henderson  and  urged  by  her  to 
stay  to  dinner,  and  put  these  incidents  together  with 
the  revelation  of  this  morning,  and  I  think  there  can  be 
very  little  doubt  that  Mrs.  Henderson  prefers  the  society 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  l8l 

of  gentlemen  to  ladies,  and  that  she  is  not  very  particular 
as  to  how  she  gets  it !" 

"  There  is  only  one  thing,  Mrs.  Betterton,  which  I 
must  have  forgotten  to  mention,"  said  Nathalie,  coloring 
shyly.  "  Did  I  tell  you  that  Mr.  Ledyard  happened  to 
say  that  Mrs.  Henderson  was  so  tired  from  her  journey 
that  she  was  not  able  to  come  to  luncheon  ?  He  told 
me  that  he  and  Lieutenant  Henderson  lunched  together 
alone." 

"  I  do  not,  really,  remember  whether  you  repeated  to 
me  Mr.  Ledyard's  explanation  of  these  matters  or  not," 
said  Mrs.  Betterton,  scornfully.  "I  do  know  that  the 
very  fact  that  he  took  the  trouble  to  explain  gives  color 
to  the  suspicion  that  he  was  anxious  on  his  own  account 
lest  we  should  think  it  strange  that  he  was  admitted 
when  we  were  denied." 

No  more  was  said  on  the  subject  by  the  two  girls, 
but  there  was  enough  in  what  Mrs.  Betterton  had  told 
them,  or,  rather,  in  what  she  had  not  told  them,  of 
Mrs.  Henderson,  to  cause  some  uneasiness  as  to  the 
influences  to  which  Mr.  Ledyard  might  be  subjected, 
and  neither  of  them  was  free  from  a  slight  feeling  of 
pain  and  regret  at  his  apparent  intimacy  with  that  lady, 
which  they  both  found  it  so  hard  to  reconcile  with  the 
impression  made  upon  them  of  his  frankness  and  up- 
rightness of  character. 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 

MEANWHILE  Sunday  came,  and  Ledyard  was  pleased 
to  see  not  only  Mrs.  and  Miss  Betterton,  Mr.  Betterton, 
and  Mr.  Tom  Betterton  in  the  pew  which  they  had 
elected  to  consider  their  own,  but  the  not-unhoped-for 
figure  of  Miss  Nathalie  Arkwright,  who  sat  looking  very 
impenetrable  and  demure  throughout  the  services  and 
sermon.  Such  an  array  of  smart  bonnets  and  gowns 

16 


1 82  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

and  of  new,  neatly-brushed  coats  as  was  presented  by 
the  Betterton  quartette  might  have  gladdened  the  heart 
of  any  pastor  who  was  sufficiently  alive  to  the  ostenta- 
tious respectability  of  appearance  thus  conferred  upon 
the  whole  congregation,  yet  it  may  be  doubted  whether 
his  heart,  if  moved  at  all,  was  not  more  concerned  with 
the  fifth  person  in  the  pew,  whose  costume  was  of  a 
much  graver  tint  and  very  simple,  although  fitting  closely 
to  her  pretty  figure. 

It  has  been  hinted  that  while  far  from  the  white- 
cravatted  type  of  young  society  clergymen  whom  Miss 
Betterton  had  met  before,  and  in  spite  of  her  mother's 
disapprobation  of  him  and  of  his  taste  in  light  literature, 
Ledyard  had  nevertheless  found  favor  in  Florence's 
eyes;  but  it  is  only  justice  to  him  to  say  that  he  was 
entirely  unconscious  of  how  much  of  her  sudden  fancy 
for  St.  Andrew's  Church  and  willingness  to  teach  the 
poor  factory-children  was  due  to  her  personal  interest 
in  the  young  rector.  Miss  Florence,  on  the  other  hand, 
was  far  from  realizing  the  extent  to  which  her  philan- 
thropic and  religious  sentiments  were  influenced  by  the 
personal  attraction  which  she  frankly  acknowledged  as 
the  first  cause  of  her  insisting  upon  the  change  from 
Mr.  Ashmead's  church  to  that  of  Mr.  Ledyard. 

"  He  has  so  much  more  in  him,  papa,  and  he  says  it  so 
much  more  pleasantly,"  she  had  asserted,  with  decision, 
and  Mr.  Betterton  had  been  inclined  to  "  conclude  that 
Florry  must  be  right." 

Of  course,  since  Florence  had  been  to  such  a  "  swell" 
school  and  had  paid  visits  to  fashionable  school  friends 
in  Baltimore,  where  she  had  gone  into  the  very  "first 
circles,"  even  Mrs.  Betterton  was  inclined  to  feel  some 
respect  for  Florence's  opinion ;  and  when  Mr.  Thomas 
Betterton  came  home  for  a  short  visit  from  the  gay  life 
in  the  city,  which  he  much  preferred  to  helping  his 
father  with  his  work  at  the  factories,  not  liking  busi- 
ness so  well  as  pleasure,  he  confirmed  the  opinion  that 
"  Florry  knew  what  was  what." 

It  was  a  matter  of  some  surprise  to  Florence  and 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  183 

Nathalie,  as  well  as  to  others  in  the  congregation,  that 
Mrs.  Henderson  should  have  taken  it  into  her  head  to 
appear  at  church  in  Dundaffon  this  Sunday,  for  the  first 
time  since  she  had  come  to  live  at  Fernwood.  It  was 
popularly  believed  in  the  village  that  Mrs.  Henderson 
preferred  St.  Luke's,  as  the  more  aristocratic  place  of 
worship,  although  Henderson  himself  went  regularly  to 
St.  Andrew's ;  but  whatever  motive  may  have  influenced 
her  on  this  occasion,  there  she  sat  to-day,  beside  her 
husband,  in  the  pew  which  he  generally  occupied,  while 
little  Wilfred  was  at  his  other  elbow. 

She  did  not  look  so  desperately  wicked,  the  girls 
thought,  as  they  glanced  at  the  fragile  little  woman  from 
beneath  their  hat-brims  and  noted  how  pale  her  cheeks 
had  grown  since  the  last  time  they  had  seen  her  driv- 
ing through  Dundaff,  just  before  her  accident.  Indeed, 
neither  her  Parisian  silk  gown  nor  the  jaunty  hat  and 
feather,  which  set  off  her  faded  charms  to  their  best  ad- 
vantage, could  make  up  for  the  worn  and  anxious  ex- 
pression which  had  come  into  her  face.  Would  Mr. 
Ledyard  go  and  speak  to  her  when  church  was  over  ? 
Nathalie  wondered;  but  she  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing 
that  he  did  not. 

As  soon  as  he  appeared  without  his  surplice,  he  made 
his  way  to  where  she  herself  was  standing,  in  the  church 
porch,  a  little  apart  from  the  others.  There  was  but  a 
word  or  two  between  them,  but  it  was  enough,  although 
he  only  held  out  his  hand  in  a  frank,  simple  way,  asking 
whether  she  had  felt  any  ill  effects  from  her  exposure  to 
the  storm  a  day  or  two  before,  and  then  turned  to  Flor- 
ence Betterton,  who  approached  at  this  moment,  and 
began  at  once  to  speak  on  the  subject  of  his  last  con- 
versation with  her. 

"  I  think  I  have  found  something  for  you  to  do,  Miss 
Betterton,"  he  said,  cordially,  and  launched  into  the  sub- 
ject of  the  services  to  be  held  in  the  open  air  on  the 
following  Sunday,  and  the  idea  that  a  number  of  the 
factory-children  might  be  got  together  also,  for  special 
instruction,  before  the  service  for  the  older  people. 


1 84  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

Florence  listened  with  great  interest,  and  grew  to  feel 
more  and  more  convinced  that  Mr.  Ledyard  could  not 
be  anything  but  an  earnest  worker  and  a  true  man.  It 
was  his  special  gift  that  he  had  the  power  of  impressing 
eveiy  one  with  whom  he  came  in  contact  with  this  be- 
lief in  his  sincerity ;  a  gift  rarely  conferred  on  a  rascal, 
but  valuable  to  all  men. 

"  As  the  whole  matter  is  one  which  concerns  the 
workers  in  the  factories,"  he  concluded,  "  I  should  like, 
before  proceeding  to  act,  to  obtain  your  father's  consent. 
Will  you  come  with  me  to  find  him  ?" 

No  suggestion  could  have  been  more  fortunate  to  free 
Florence  from  her  mother's  probable  notice  and  con 
demnation.  She  moved  away  with  Mr.  Ledyard,  not 
disguising  from  herself  a  thrill  of  pride,  inspired  by  his 
evident  confidence  and  open  deference  before  the  dis- 
persing congregation,  and,  after  looking  about  for  some 
moments,  found  her  father  at  the  back  of  the  church 
in  the  act  of  ordering  the  carriage  and  horses  to  be 
brought  round. 

"Never  mind  the  carriage  just  yet,  father,"  said 
Florence,  decisively.  "  Mr.  Ledyard  has  something 
about  which  he  wishes  to  speak  to  you."  At  which 
the  old  man  countermanded  the  order  to  the  coachman 
meekly,  and  turned  to  his  daughter  and  her  companion 
without  the  slightest  protest. 

"  So,  Mr.  Ledyard,  it  is  me  that  you  have  come  after 
flow,"  he  said,  with  a  shrewd  twinkle  in  his  small  gray 
eyes ;  "  and  I  am  thinking  that  you  arc  not  satisfied  with 
discoursing  in  a  church,  but  you  must  even  be  preaching 
out  of  it,  if  all  I  hear  be  true." 

Ledyard  started  in  surprise.  "  Has  Lieutenant  Hen- 
derson spoken  to  you  already,  sir,  of  my  desire  to  ad- 
dress the  employees  of  the  factories  in  the  woods  next 
Sunday  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Indeed,  that  he  has,  then,"  responded  Mr.  Better- 
ton  ;  "  and  I  am  not  so  sure  that  I  will  go  against  it, 
if  so  be  you  keep  the  folk  quiet  and  orderly,  and  no 
nonsense  of  teaching  them  that  they  are  better  than 


BROKEN  CHOADS.  185 

them  that  they  work  for,  but  just  to  go  like  decent 
bodies." 

"  I  certainly  have  no  intention  of  stirring  up  any 
spirit  of  revolt,"  said  Richard.  "  I  want  not  to  make 
enmity,  but,  if  possible,  to  establish  better  feeling  all 
round.  I  have  been  much  troubled  that  the  people  who 
live  about  the  factories  seem  so  lacking  in  decent 
clothes  and  keep  so  apart  from  the  villagers,  as  well  as 
that  they  will  not  come  to  church.  They  surely  ought 
to  be  able  to  make  themselves  look  more  respectable, 
with  the  wages  they  receive." 

"  Perhaps  they  do  not  know  how  to  spend  their 
money,"  said  Florence,  thoughtfully. 

"  No,  no,"  returned  her  father.  "  It  is  just  that  they 
do  not  care,  or  spend  it  on  liquor." 

Mrs.  Betterton  meanwhile  had  spotted  Mrs.  Hender- 
son among  the  people  who  were  leaving  the  church, 
and  had  taken  up  a  position  near  the  door-way,  whence 
she  could  see  her  and  speak  to  her  as  she  passed  out. 
She  had  not  definitely  determined  on  her  mode  of  attack, 
but  had  resolved  that,  if  it  were  within  her  power,  she 
would  be  revenged.  As  the  lady  approached  by  her 
husband's  side,  however,  she  caught  sight  of  Mrs.  Bet- 
terton, whom,  without  knowing  any  reason  for  it,  she 
rather  disliked,  and,  slipping  her  hand  out  of  Millard's 
arm,  left  him  to  face  the  village  dragon  alone,  while  she 
lingered  and  spoke  a  few  words  to  Miss  Platt  about  a 
bonnet  in  which  that  worthy  milliner  had  undertaken  to 
change  the  flowers. 

Miss  Platt  did  not  usually  consider  it  proper  to  discuss 
matters  concerning  her  trade  with  her  customers  any- 
where but  in  her  little  shop,  and  least  of  all  on  Sunday 
after  church,  but  she  had  noticed  Mrs.  Betterton's  ex- 
pectant expression  as  she  stood  waiting  for  her  victim. 
She  had  caught  the  look  of  disappointment  with  which 
she  saw  her  turn  aside,  and  she  felt  secretly  pleased  at 
her  own  apparent  social  triumph,  for,  as  Mrs.  Henderson 
had  the  grace  to  speak  in  a  low  tone,  who  could  divine 
the  subject  of  their  conversation  ? 

1 6* 


1 86  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

Henderson  advanced  in  supreme  unconsciousness  of 
the  offence  which  his  wife  had  given  to  the  wife  of  his  part- 
ner, and  paused  to  say  a  few  kind  words  to  her,  although 
Mrs.  Betterton  was  not  exactly  a  favorite  with  him. 

"  Oh,  we  were  none  the  worse  for  the  rain,  thank 
you,"  she  assured  him,  in  return  for  his  inquiries.  "  Our 
only  misfortune  was  that  we  should  not  have  found 
Mrs.  Henderson  able  and  ready  to  see  us." 

"  To  be  sure,  to  be  sure,"  said  Millard,  hastily.  "  It 
was  her  misfortune,  of  course.  The  truth  is  that  she 
has  not  yet  entirely  regained  her  strength,  and  had  just 
returned  from  a  little  visit  to  her  mother,  so  that  she 
was  tired  from  the  journey." 

"So  we  were  told,"  returned  Mrs.  Betterton,  grimly; 
"  but  when  we  saw  Mrs.  Henderson  the  next  day  she 
seemed  active  enough,  and  Tom  thought  she  was  look- 
ing remarkably  well  at  dinner  that  evening." 

"  Mrs.  Henderson  will  be  pleased  to  hear  it,"  rejoined 
Millard,  determined  to  accept  the  implied  slur  as  a  com- 
pliment. "  What  an  impossible  woman  !"  he  was  saying 
to  himself,  and  made  an  inward  note  of  the  difficulty  of 
keeping  up  social  relations  with  any  one  who  insisted 
on  going  back  of  a  polite  excuse.  He  resolved  that  he 
would  not  be  so  rash  as  to  begin  a  conversation  with 
Mrs.  Betterton  again,  and  to  end  this  one  as  soon  as  might 
be;  but  just  as  he  was  about  to  pass  on,  Mrs.  Betterton 
began  to  speak  on  another  subject. 

"  And  how  did  you  like  Mr.  Ledyard's  sermon,  Lieu- 
tenant Henderson?"  she  asked,  not  without  a  latent 
purpose. 

"  The  sermon  ?  Oh,  I  think  it  did  very  well.  I  like 
Ledyard  himself  immensely.  He  is  a  thoroughly  good 
fellow,  and  it  always  does  me  good  to  hear  him,  although, 
perhaps,  his  sermon  to-day  may  not  have  been  quite  as 
fine  as  usual.  Not  so  high  as  his  own  mark,  so  to  speak." 
"  That  is  exactly  what  I  thought  myself,"  declared 
Mrs.  Betterton,  eagerly.  "  I  was  saying  to  Tom  that  I 
thought  it  was  not  equal  to  most  of  the  sermons  I  had 
heard  him  deliver,  and  his  manner,  too,  was  not  so  good. 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  l8/ 

He  seemed  what  I  call  flustered.  Perhaps  it  was  having 
Mrs.  Henderson  hear  him  for  the  first  time,  when  he 
wasn't  at  his  best,  and  he  such  a  friend  of  hers.  It 
must  have  been  mortifying  to  him,  to  say  the  least." 

"  Oh,  you  are  mistaken  there,"  said  Henderson,  care- 
lessly, dedicating  a  faint  smile  to  Mrs.  Betterton's  weak- 
ness for  seeming  well  informed  about  things  of  which 
she  was  absolutely  ignorant.  "  Ledyard  is  not  a  friend 
of  Mrs.  Henderson's ;  in  fact,  I  have  only  lately  had  the 
opportunity  of  becoming  a  friend  of  his  myself." 

It  was  Mrs.  Betterton's  turn  to  smile,  and  she  did 
so  with  a  fine  mingling  of  compassion  and  superiority, 
which  almost  made  him  laugh.  "  Then  you  are  really 
not  aware  of  the  friendship  between  Mrs.  Henderson 
and  Mr.  Ledyard,  although  Mr.  Ledyard  was  lunching 
with  you  at  Fernwood  only  day  before  yesterday  ?"  she 
asked,  incredulously. 

"  I  am  really  not  aware  of  it,"  returned  Millard,  with 
humor.  "  For,  as  it  chances,  that  was  the  very  day 
when  Mrs.  Henderson  was  so  fatigued  from  her  journey, 
having  just  returned  to  Fernwood,  that  she  missed  your 
delightful  visit,  and  she  was  also  too  tired  to  come  down 
to  luncheon.  I  do  not  think,  therefore,  that  she  has  ever 
met  Mr.  Ledyard." 

Mrs.  Betterton  was  surprised,  for  she  had  been  con- 
vinced that  Mr.  Ledyard  was  telling  an  untruth  when 
he  declared  that  Mrs.  Henderson  had  not  appeared  at 
luncheon,  but  she  was  by  no  means  discomfited,  for 
there  was  mixed  with  her  surprise  a  distinct  sensation 
of  triumph,  such  as  one  might  imagine  a  fox-hound  to 
experience  when,  after  running  hither  and  thither  in  pur- 
suit of  his  prey,  he  first  strikes  the  scent. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  she  inquired,  solemnly, 
"  that  you  actually  believe  that  Mr.  Ledyard  and  your 
wife  have  never  met  ?" 

This  time  Henderson  did  laugh.  What  he  inwardly 
denoted  her  "  clumsy  meddling"  was  too  much  for  his 
natural  courtesy. 

"  That   is    my  impression,   Mrs.  Betterton,"  he   said, 


1 88  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

recovering  himself  with  an  effort ;  "  but  it  really  would 
not  freeze  me  with  horror  to  hear  that  they  had." 

Now,  if  there  were  anything  this  lady  hated  it  was 
ridicule.  Thus  defied,  she  became  dangerous.  Her 
usually  florid  countenance  grew  crimson  with  passion, 
and  her  tones  grew  more  and  more  acidly  venomous. 

"  What  would  you  think,"  she  asked,  "  if  you  were 
told  that  Mrs.  Henderson  had  been  seen  to  go  to  Mr. 
Ledyard's  house  and  tap  on  his  study  window  ?  What 
would  you  say  if  you  were  told  that  she  had  been  seen 
to  wait  until  he  came  to  open  the  door  for  her,  that  she 
had  been  seen  to  enter  silently,  and  at  the  end  of  an 
hour  or  more  had  been  seen  to  come  out  again  accom- 
panied by  Mr.  Ledyard,  who  took  precautions  to  be 
sure  no  one  was  in  sight,  and  then  Mrs.  Henderson  had 
been  seen  to  draw  a  veil  over  her  face  and  run  from  the 
house  with  every  appearance  of  dreading  recognition  ?" 

"  If  a  man  ventured  to  tell  me  so,"  said  Henderson,  in 
a  changed  tone  and  with  a  face  which  had  been  gradu- 
ally darkening,  "  I  should  give  him  an  answer  both 
short  and  to  the  point,  although  even  then  a  church 
would  hardly  be  the  place  to  deliver  it.  If  a  woman 
dared,  I  should  think  the  less  I  said  to  her  the  better, 
then  or  on  any  future  occasion,  and  should  certainly 
avoid  her." 

He  turned  on  his  heel  as  he  spoke,  and  went  back  to 
where  Mrs.  Henderson  was  still  standing  with  little  Wil- 
fred. 

"  Come,  my  dear,"  he  began,  "  we  must  be  going  now, 
and  I  want  you  to  take  my  arm  and  let  us  get  quickly 
out  of  this  crowd.  There  are  some  people  here  whom 
the  less  we  see  the  better." 

Posey  looked  up  surprised,  but  she  took  his  arm  with 
evident  pleasure  at  the  attention,  and  passed,  for  the 
time  being,  beyond  the  power  of  her  vindictive  enemy. 

Petrified  for  the  moment  by  the  discovery  that,  instead 
of  bringing  shame  and  disgrace  on  Mrs.  Henderson,  she 
had  brought  an  undreamt-of  disaster  upon  herself  and 
her  family  by  leading  the  way  to  an  actual  break  with 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  189 

the  Hendersons,  who  were  the  only  people  of  standing 
in  the  neighborhood  with  whom  they  could  claim  any- 
thing more  than  the  most  distant  acquaintance,  Mrs. 
Betterton  deeply  regretted  what  she  had  said,  but  in  the 
course  of  a  day  or  two  she  began  to  rally.  It  then  be- 
came evident  to  her  that  she  could  not  in  "  conscience" 
have  withheld  the  truth,  however  incautious  it  might 
have  been  to  admit  it  to  a  husband  "  who  was  evidently 
infatuated  and  unable  to  realize  the  extent  to  which  his 
credulity  was  being  played  upon,"  and  she  took  care 
that  her  view  of  the  matter,  as  well  as  the  matter  itself, 
in  all  its  enormity  and  with  every  compromising  detail, 
should  be  made  known  to  Miss  Platt  and  Mrs.  Duffy,  to 
Mr.  Denny,  to  Mrs.  Phelps,  in  fact,  to  every  one  but  her 
own  husband,  of  whose  disapproval  she  was  so  certain 
that  she  instinctively  shrank  from  telling  him  of  her 
having  approached  Lieutenant  Henderson  with  such 
temerity. 

To  the  little  circle  of  tradespeople  in  Dundaff  whom 
she  enjoyed  the  extreme  felicity  of  patronizing  unchecked, 
however,  she  called  loudly  for  sympathy  in  her  virtuous 
and  valiant  determination  to  spare  no  evil-doer  from  the 
mere  loftiness  of  her  social  position  or  any  other  mun- 
dane reason,  and  it  thus  fell  out  that  in  less  than  a  week 
all  the  village  gossips  were  feeding  themselves  fat  on 
various  versions  of  the  scandalous  tale,  embellished  with 
such  extra  touches  and  pointed  with  such  moral  reflec- 
tions as  suited  the  fancy  of  the  teller. 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

IT  would  hardly  be  possible  to  exaggerate  the  state 
of  agitation  and  excitement  into  which  old  Marjory  was 
thrown  by  the  announcement  that  "  Miss  Nathalie" 
was  coming  to  visit  her  sister  Cynthia  in  the  little  brown 
cottage.  To  be  sure,  the  even  tenor  of  former  ways 


190  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

had  already  been  violently  broken  in  upon  by  Mrs.  Hen- 
derson's unlucky  accident,  but  then  Mrs.  Henderson's 
accident  was,  in  Marjory's  opinion,  a  thing  for  which 
Providence  alone  was  responsible,  and  she  was  in  the 
habit  of  making  allowances  for  Providence  which  Cyn- 
thia could  hardly  expect  to  have  extended  to  her  or  her 
unprecedented  conduct  in  asking  a  young  beauty  and 
heiress,  direct  from  the  gay  world,  to  share  her  humble 
roof  and  partake  of  the  frugal  fare  which  was  habitual 
beneath  it. 

Marjory  had  hitherto  maintained  that  if  Miss  Cynthia 
chose  to  live  in  the  little  brown  cottage  that  cottage 
was  the  best  and  most  fitting  spot  on  the  face  of  the 
earth  that  she  could  inhabit,  for  the  eccentricity  of  her 
secluded  life  in  the  eyes  of  others  had  only  given  her 
will  a  more  sacred  authority  in  those  of  the  old  servant, 
but  for  no  reason  except  as  a  matter  of  choice  was  the 
tiny  dwelling  suitable  to  her  mistress,  and  how  was  this 
senseless  girl  to  understand  such  fine  distinctions  ?  It 
wounded  Marjory  to  the  quick  to  think  of  Cynthia's 
being  humbled  before  the  child  of  her  own  father, — a 
child,  too,  who  possessed,  by  the  singular  injustice  of 
fortune,  all  the  wealth  which  should  have  been  hers,  in 
addition  to  her  own.  What  had  she  come  in  their  way 
for,  at  any  rate  ?  What  was  there  in  common  between 
the  fuss  and  the  nonsense  and  all  the  grand  things  to 
which  she  had  been  used,  and  such  quiet,  useful  lives 
as  she  and  her  mistress  had  been  in  the  habit  of  living  ? 

Marjory  was  probably  unconscious  of  how  much  of 
her  present  irritation  was  due  to  the  fact  that  the  quiet 
way  of  living  above  referred  to  was  exactly  suited  to 
her  taste  in  her  own  declining  years.  She  certainly  did 
not  realize  that  for  her  mistress,  who  was  somewhat 
younger  than  herself,  such  a  life  was  both  unnatural  and 
unhealthy,  and  was  far  from  imagining  the  keenness 
of  the  satisfaction,  the  intensity  of  the  delight,  with 
which  Cynthia  welcomed  the  spontaneous  advent  of  her 
little  sister.  She  did  see  that  Miss  Arkwright  watched 
her  guest  with  eager  pleasure,  that  there  was  no  effort 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  19! 

which  she  was  not  ready  to  make  to  add  to  her  enjoy- 
ment, and  an  odd  sort  of  jealousy,  sadly  compatible 
with  many  noble  characteristics,  took  possession  of  old 
Marjory.  She  envied  the  youth  and  bloom,  the  light 
heart  and  free  step,  the  sweetness  and  charm  of  Nath- 
alie Arkwright,  and  above  all  she  envied  her  her  mis- 
tress's love.  Why,  when  she  had  everything  else  that 
nature  and  the  world  could  give,  should  she  have  this, 
the  one  comfort  of  Marjory's  long,  hard-working  days  ? 
Had  she  not  stood  by  Cynthia  through  loneliness  and 
sorrow,  had  she  not  worked  for  her  through  long  years 
of  toil,  had  she  not  cared  for  her  in  illness  and  literally 
nursed  her  back  to  life,  as  Cynthia  had  said,  and  was 
all  the  love  that  she  had  won  in  return  for  this  devo- 
tion to  be  lavished  on  a  girl  whose  existence  they  had 
almost  forgotten  a  few  weeks  ago  ? 

She  was  very  careful  to  say  nothing  of  the  sort  to 
Cynthia,  however,  and  in  spite  of  these  dark  repinings 
the  warmth  and  sweetness  of  the  friendship  between  the 
two  sisters  grew  as  the  days  passed.  Nathalie,  who  had, 
fortunately  for  the  remaining  peace  of  mind  of  the  old 
English  servant,  sent  home  her  French  maid  before 
leaving  Camelot,  seemed  as  active  and  capable  of  taking 
care  of  herself  as  if  she  had  been  used  to  do  so  always. 
Indeed,  she  never  mentioned  the  existence  of  the  elegant 
Rosalie  to  Cynthia,  nor  could  any  one  who  saw  her 
now  have  dreamed  of  how  dependent  she  usually  was 
on  that  functionary ;  but  what  was  still  more  remarkable 
was  the  manner  in  which  she  entered  into  all  the  some- 
what prosaic  occupations  and  interests  of  her  sister's 
monotonous  life. 

She  rose  early  to  help  to  water  the  flowers  in  the 
little  garden  before  the  sun  was  on  them.  She  was 
ready  for  a  walk  to  the  post-office  with  Cynthia  after 
breakfast.  She  insisted  on  being  allowed  to  read  to 
the  little  girls  of  Cynthia's  sewing-class,  and  sat  by 
very  demurely  while  Miss  Arkwright  talked  to  the  older 
lads,  who  met  at  the  house  on  a  Saturday  evening  to 
discuss  the  most  important  questions  of  the  times, 


IQ2  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

politically  or  morally, — a  sort  of  debating  club,  in  which 
each  member  was  encouraged  to  express  his  opinion 
freely  and  fully,  where  many  an  inspiring  thought  and 
ennobling  suggestion  was  unostentatiously  dropped  in 
their  midst  by  their  quiet  but  strangely  sympathetic 
hostess. 

It  often  seemed  to  Nathalie,  on  these  occasions,  as  if 
Cynthia  were  transformed  from  the  grave  demeanor  and 
calm  manner  which  had  become  habitual  to  her,  so  eager, 
animated,  and  absorbed  would  she  seem  to  be  by  the 
crudely-expressed  opinions  of  the  little  company,  while 
the  spirit  and  earnestness  which  she  threw  into  all  her 
appeals  to  right  feeling  on  questions  of  moral  distinc- 
tion, or  the  ill-suppressed  scorn  with  which  she  greeted 
any  sentiment  which  savored  of  meanness,  was  a  revela- 
tion to  her  sister,  although  a  purely  unconscious  one  on 
Cynthia's  part. 

Nathalie  had  been  brought  up  among  people  with 
whom  thinking  was  not  the  fashion ;  she  had  often  seen 
her  mother  or  sisters  animated  in  society,  but  it  had 
always  been  a  matter  of  accent,  of  piquant  expression, 
of  well-timed  laughter  aptly  used  to  fill  a  pause  which 
might,  if  neglected,  become  awkward.  When  alone,  on 
the  other  hand,  these  ladies  would  sometimes  tremble 
with  excitement  over  a  difference  of  opinion  in  the  dis- 
cussion of  a  new  style  of  dress,  or  glow  with  enthusiasm 
at  the  description  of  some  odd  but  most  elegant  fashion 
of  decorating  a  table  for  dinner  or  luncheon,  but  when  it 
came  to  a  fine  picture,  such  as  appealed  to  Nathalie  her- 
self, or  a  new  book,  which  had  awakened  her  humor  and 
imagination,  it  never  seemed  that  they  possessed  either 
quality. 

They  read  but  few  books,  and  these  they  did  not  care 
to  talk  about,  unless,  indeed,  it  were  done  by  way  of 
making  conversation,  and  then,  although  in  their  line 
they  were  clever,  what  was  said  was  of  the  veriest  un- 
importance, compared  to  how  it  was  said,  and  to  whom. 

To  Cynthia,  on  the  other  hand,  the  subject  seemed  of 
the  most  absorbing  interest,  and  all  else  was  subordinated. 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  193 

It  happened  often  now  that  Mr.  Ledyard  would  drop  in 
when  these  evening-  discussions  were  in  progress,  and, 
without  intruding  his  opinion,  unless  appealed  to,  would 
yet  be  ready  to  give  a  needed  explanation  of  some  ab- 
struse theory  in  political  economy,  or  to  suggest  a  solu- 
tion, where  one  was  asked,  of  some  confessedly  knotty 
question  of  ethics.  Nathalie,  who  was  stimulated  in 
these  days  by  the  delightful  sense  of  a  new  and  interest- 
ing experience,  opening  in  various  directions  undreamed- 
of vistas  of  possible  emotion  or  achievement,  would 
keep  quite  still  at  such  times,  noting  every  little  detail 
of  the  scene,  which  was  indelibly  impressing  itself  on 
her  memory. 

The  earnestness  and  large  grasp  of  his  subject  shown 
by  Ledyard,  and  his  intellectual  absorption  in  the  point 
at  issue,  the  eagerness  of  the  lads'  faces,  the  fire  and 
inspiration  which  they  caught  from  Cynthia,  all  held  her 
attention  spell-bound. 

Why  did  Cynthia  and  Mr.  Ledyard  care  to  take  so 
much  trouble?  That  was  what  amazed  her.  What 
possible  advantage  could  come  of  it  all  to  them  ?  And 
yet  she  could  see  that  they  felt  a  keen  pleasure  in  their 
work.  Such  ideas  of  self-sacrifice  as  she  had  were 
wholly  original,  but  so  were  her  estimates  of  what  she 
had  a  right  to  require  from  her  neighbors  in  the  way  of 
concession ;  nor  had  her  moral  training  been  deficient, 
according  to  the  views  of  those  about  her.  There  had 
certainly  been  no  intentional  perversion,  for,  however 
self-indulgent  or  frivolous  the  example  they  set,  people 
rarely  teach  selfishness  theoretically,  and  the  most  de- 
voted followers  of  worldly  doctrines  do  not  preach 
them. 

Nathalie  had  not  had  any  conversation  with  Mr.  Led- 
yard, except  of  the  most  casual  nature,  since  the  after- 
noon of  their  adventure,  when  one  morning  that  she 
had  not  walked  to  the  post-office  as  usual,  she  was  idly 
swinging  in  the  garden  with  a  book  in  her  hand,  and, 
stooping  to  disentangle  her  white  flannel  dress  from  the 
thorny  branches  of  a  rose-bush  which  grew  near,  she 

I         n  17 


IQ4  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

looked  up,  to  see  him  coming  that  way.  Richard  was 
walking  with  his  hands  clasped  behind  him,  his  head  bent 
and  his  brow  contracted,  evidently  lost  in  thought.  He 
probably  did  not  expect  to  see  any  one  at  that  hour  in 
the  garden  behind  the  cottage,  which,  so  far  from  being 
trim  and  orderly  like  that  in  front  of  the  house,  was  a 
sweet  old-fashioned  labyrinth  of  shrubs  and  lilac-bushes 
and  tall  tiger-lilies  and  dahlias,  that  with  the  advancing 
season  had  just  come  into  bloom. 

Now,  the  fine  old  chestnut-tree,  from  the  largest  branch 
of  which  hung  the  rustic  swing  that  Nathalie  had  chosen 
for  a  seat,  chanced  to  stand  close  to  the  twisted  wooden 
fence  surrounding  Cynthia's  little  domain,  which  was 
thus  separated  from  the  sunny  meadow  that  sloped  down 
into  the  fertile  valley  from  which  it  was  evident  that  Mr. 
Ledyard  was  returning,  while  the  irregular  foot-path  that 
he  was  pursuing  ran  along  beside  the  fence  for  several 
yards  before  turning  off  at  an  angle  to  join  the  cart- 
track.  As  Ledyard  came  closer,  she  could  not  have  told 
why  she  suddenly  curbed  the  gentle  swaying  motion  to 
which  her  lithe  body  had  been  yielding  with  such  pleas- 
urable sensation  a  moment  or  two  before,  but  such  was 
the  case.  She  even  drew  in  her  breath  as  she  held  her- 
self from  moving  one  inch  backward  or  forward.  Yet 
she  was  conscious  of  a  strong  wish  that  he  would  look 
up  and  speak  to  her,  although  she  would  not  make  the 
slightest  movement  to  attract  his  attention. 

Is  there  a  subtle  personal  magnetism  which  may  be 
exercised  even  without  the  knowledge  of  its  owner, 
conveying  the  mandates  of  the  will  independently  of 
muscular  action?  Perhaps  so.  At  least  we  have  all 
believed  that  we  felt  it  at  one  time  or  other  in  our  lives, 
and  certain  it  is  that  from  this  or  other  cause  Ledyard 
suddenly  raised  his  head  when  exactly  opposite  and 
met  Nathalie's  startled  eyes  with  his  strong,  level  gaze, 
which  instantly  changed  from  its  expression  of  anxious 
thought  to  a  look  of  recognition.  It  was  a  peculiarly 
radiant  look,  which  did  not  so  much  convey  the  idea  of 
surprise  as  of  the  realization  of  a  hope,  although  it  was 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  195 

quite  evident  that  nothing  could  have  been  more  unex- 
pected to  him  than  the  meeting,  and  by  some  occult 
process  only  known  to  woman  she  drew  from  it  an  inti- 
mation that  she  had  not  been  entirely  absent  from  his 
thoughts  since  they  had  last  spoken  unrestrainedly  to 
one  another. 

The  suggestion  was  not  a  distasteful  one  to  Nathalie, 
for,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  there  was  hardly  a  day  but 
the  image  of  Ledyard  had  obtruded  itself  on  her  fancy, — 
not  always  in  a  pleasant  form,  to  be  sure, — sometimes  fol- 
lowed by  a  disturbing  procession  of  doubts  giving  rise 
to  unprofitable  speculation,  sometimes  accompanied  by  a 
sense  of  mortification  at  the  display  of  weakness  which 
she  felt  that  she  had  made  to  him,  but  usually  bringing 
at  the  end  a  glow  of  admiration  for  his  courage  and  a 
warm  sense  of  gratitude  for  his  exercise  of  it  in  her 
behalf. 

"  Why,  good-morning,  Miss  Nathalie,"  he  said,  cheerily, 
pausing  and  leaning  easily  on  the  fence-rail,  while  his 
eyes  still  looked  radiant,  and  Nathalie  Arkwright,  the 
self-possessed  young  lady  whose  composure  had  so 
impressed  him  when  he  first  saw  her,  felt  herself  blush- 
ing like  a  village  maiden.  Yet  she  did  not  withdraw 
her  gaze,  having  a  vague  idea  that  should  she  do  so  he 
might  guess  something  of  which  she  wished  him  of  all 
things  to  remain  ignorant.  Had  she  been  more  self- 
possessed  she  would  have  seen  that  he  was  too  far  car- 
ried off  his  feet,  metaphorically  speaking,  to  be  able  to 
observe  or  form  conclusions.  He  was  but  conscious  of 
an  intense  thrill  of  joy,  and  seemed  to  himself  to  be 
standing  over  the  mad  feeling  which  had  leapt  up  so 
suddenly,  with  his  hand  at  its  throat,  as  it  were,  and  a 
deadly  determination  to  keep  it  from  betraying  him,  at 
any  cost. 

"  May  I  come  over  the  fence  ?"  he  asked,  suiting  the 
action  to  the  word,  for,  although  she  had  not  answered 
his  greeting,  there  was  no  denial  in  her  face,  and  the 
next  moment  he  was  seated  beside  her  on  one  of  the 
roots  of  the  tree  and  had  begun  to  remember  the  anxiety 


196  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

which  was  pressing  upon  him  very  heavily  a  little  while 
before. 

She  was  quick  to  notice  the  change  in  his  expression, 
and  seized  on  it  promptly  as  a  means  of  escaping  from 
the  awkward  silence  in  which  she  felt  herself  imprisoned. 

"  I  fancied  as  I  saw  you  coming  this  way,  Mr.  Led- 
yard,  that  something  might  have  happened  to  trouble 
you,"  she  said,  timidly. 

"  So  it  had,"  he  answered  impulsively,  obeying  the 
instinct  which  bade  him  accept  the  sympathy  she  offered. 

There  was  a  short  pause.  "  Was  it — was  it  any  bad 
news  ?"  she  asked  at  last. 

"  Well,  I  do  not  know  that  I  ought  to  call  it  that," 
said  Ledyard.  "  I  have  just  had  a  letter  which  tells  me 
that  a  man  whom  I  believed  to  be  dead  is  living." 

She  started  and  looked  at  him  in  surprise,  but  he  did 
not  notice  it.  He  was  seated  with  his  back  against  the 
trunk  of  the  tree,  one  knee  drawn  up  and  his  arms  passed 
round  it  with  the  hands  clasped.  His  eyes  were  bent 
upon  the  ground,  as  they  had  been  when  she  first 
saw  him. 

"  Is  the  man  your  enemy  ?"  she  asked,  gravely. 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  said,  with  a  sudden  smile.  "  On  the 
contrary,  I  believe  him  to  be  a  very  good  fellow." 

"  Why,  then,  does  his  existence  make  you  uneasy  ?" 

"  Merely  from  the  consequences  which  it  may  entail," 
he  answered.  "  Sometimes  the  best-meaning  fellows  may 
do  a  great  deal  of  harm." 

"  That  is  very  true,"  returned  Nathalie,  thinking  of 
the  way  in  which,  without  the  slightest  intention  of  doing 
her  an  injury,  Tom  Betterton  had  betrayed  the  fact  of 
Mrs.  Henderson  having  appeared  at  dinner  that  Friday 
evening  to  his  mother.  "  But  is  it  at  all  likely  that  the 
man  you  speak  of  will  do  you  any  harm  ?"  she  added, 
returning  to  the  point  in  question. 

"  It  is  almost  certain  that  he  will,  unless  such  a  mis- 
fortune can  be  averted,"  said  Ledyard ;  "  but  I  am  not 
the  only  person  to  be  considered ;  indeed,  I  am  not  the 
chief  sufferer  by  any  means,  in  case  of  the  worst." 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  197 

"  The  matter  is  becoming  more  and  more  mysterious," 
said  Nathalie,  with  a  mischievous  twinkle  in  her  eye 
and  a  perceptible  deepening  of  the  dimple  at  the  corner 
of  her  mouth,  which  was  nevertheless  firmly  closed. 

"  Of  course  it  is  to  you,"  said  Richard,  "  and  I  can 
easily  understand  how  absurd  so  much  mystery  must 
seem ;  but  I  have  no  right  to  speak  more  plainly,  or  I 
certainly  should  not  deal  thus  in  riddles.  Indeed,  I  am 
going  to  ask  you  to  be  kind  enough  not  to  say  one 
word  to  any  one  of  what  I  have  said." 

"  Not  even  to  Cynthia  ?"  she  asked. 

He  looked  up,  smiling.  It  was  evident  that  she  was 
in  a  provoking  mood,  and  she  charmed  him  thus.  "  I 
know  of  few  secrets  which  I  should  not  be  willing  to 
trust  to  your  sister,"  he  said ;  "  but  tell  it  to  no  one  else, 
please." 

"  Then  you  would  really  rather  that  I  did  not  tell 
Mrs.  Betterton  ?" 

"  I  believe  I  would." 

"  I  will  try  to  remember,"  she  said,  demurely ;  "  but, 
after  all,  there  is  very  little  to  tell.  You  have  confided 
to  me  nothing  positively  but  that  there  is  a  man  alive 
whom  you  fancied  dead.  Was  it  a  fancy,  by  the 
bye?" 

"  Perhaps  it  was." 

She  saw  that  he  was  growing  less  communicative 
under  her  light  treatment,  and  suddenly  changed  her 
tone.  "  Joking  apart,"  she  said,  "  could  I  really  not 
help  you  at  all  if  you  would  venture  to  tell  me  a  little 
more  ?"  She  plucked  a  rose-bud  as  she  spoke,  and 
looked  down  at  it  shyly,  while  the  color  seemed  reflected 
on  her  cheeks. 

"  You  have  helped  me  already,"  he  replied,  "  for  since 
I  have  been  talking  to  you  I  have  come  to  a  conclusion 
as  to  the  only  thing  that  I  can  do." 

"  And  what  is  that  ?" 

"  It  is  to  try  to  avert  the  misfortune  which  I  dread. 
Unhappily,  it  will  involve  my  going  away  from  here, 
which  I  am  very  loath  to  do." 

17* 


198  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

"  Going  away,  permanently  f" 

"  I  hope  not,  indeed ;  but  I  am  very  sorry  to  go  even 
temporarily,  especially  at  present." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  will  have  to  go  now  ?"  she 
asked,  breathlessly. 

"  Yes.  It  will  be  important  that  I  should  start  as  soon 
as  possible." 

There  was  a  silence,  during  which  the  same  thought 
was  in  both  their  minds.  "  May  I  have  that  rose-bud  ?" 
he  asked,  in  a  low  tone. 

She  glanced  at  him  again,  with  mischief,  from  beneath 
her  eyelids.  "  Do  you  think  that  I  ought  to  give  it  to 
you,  when  you  were  afraid  to  trust  me?" 

"  How  afraid  ?  Have  I  not  answered  every  question 
that  you  asked  me  ?" 

"  To  a  certain  point,  yes ;  but  you  have  not  told  me 
who  the  other  person  was,  for  instance,  who  was  to  be 
considered,  and  yet  I  am  longing  to  know." 

"Daughter  of  Eve,"  he  answered,  just  touching  her 
fingers  as  he  possessed  himself  of  the  rose-bud,  which 
she  had  not  refused  to  him.  "  Do  you  not  understand 
as  well  as  I  do  that  that  is  something  which  I  may  not 
tell?" 

"  And  what  if  I  were  to  guess  ?" 

"  Then  I  should  be  forced  to  regret  having  said  so 
much,  of  course." 

"Would  you,  really?"  She  looked  grave  again,  and 
rather  puzzled.  "  I  wonder  whether  I  ought  to  tell  you 
who  I  think  it  is  ?" 

"  That  is  as  you  please." 

"  You  mean  that  you  would  not  let  me  know  if  I  were 
right  ?" 

"  I  could  not."  Their  eyes  came  together  again  by 
the  same  mischievous  magic  which  had  held  them  be- 
fore. "  Believe  me,"  he  said,  very  earnestly,  "  it  is  not  a 
question  of  how  much  I  trust  you." 

"  No,"  she  answered,  softly,  "  I  hope  not ;  but  if  that 
be  true,  I  think  I  am  bound  to  tell  you  of  something  I 
have  heard." 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  199 

"  Is  it  something  about  me  ?" 

'"Yes,"  she  said,  turning  from  him  as  she  spoke,  "and 
something  which  leads  me  to  suspect  that  the  person 
you  mean  is  Mrs.  Henderson.  I  do  not  ask  you  to  tell 
me  that  I  am  right." 

So  great  was  his  astonishment  and  so  poignant  his 
regret  that  she  could  have  heard  anything  to  lead  her 
to  link  his  name  with  that  of  any  woman,  that  he  was 
thankful  for  the  delicacy  which  had  led  her  to  turn  away. 
He  appreciated  that  she  did  this  so  as  not  to  surprise 
the  secret  which  he  felt  in  honor  bound  to  keep,  and  it 
was  fortunate  she  did,  for  he  could  not  have  controlled 
his  face.  There  was  quite  a  pause  as  it  was,  while  he 
rallied  himself  to  the  task  of  concealment. 

"  Will  you  tell  me,  please,  what  you  have  heard  to 
lead  you  to  this  conclusion?"  he  asked  at  last,  very 
gravely.  "  I  think  you  said  you  would  do  so ;  and  it 
certainly  needs  explanation." 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  "  I  said  I  would  tell  you,  but  it 
was  from  a  feeling  that  it  would  be  unfair  not  to  do  so, 
if  you  were  really  confiding  in  me." 

"  I  understand." 

"  I  do  not  think  you  can  understand  how  much  rather 
I  would  leave  it  unsaid." 

"  But  I  assure  you  that  I  do."  He  bent  towards  her 
as  he  spoke. 

"  Then  I  will  tell  you  ;  but  let  me  first  explain  that  it 
is  a  mere  piece  of  village  gossip,  based  on  the  most 
insignificant  bit  of  evidence  imaginable." 

"  Do  not  say  anything  more  until  you  tell  me  what 
it  is,"  said  Ledyard.  He  spoke  a  trifle  impatiently,  for 
he  was  on  the  rack,  and  Nathalie,  who  disliked  of  all 
things  to  talk  of  disagreeable  subjects,  felt  that  she  hated 
her  role  more  than  ever;  but  she  had  plenty  of  moral 
courage,  as  Ledyard  had  remarked,  and  she  plunged 
boldly  in. 

After  all,  it  did  not  sound  so  very  diabolical,  this 
simple  little  incident,  and,  as  she  made  her  account  of  it 
as  short  as  possible,  it  was  soon  over.  "  Now,  I  do  not 


2OO  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

want  you  to  tell  me  whether  this  may  or  may  not  be 
true,  either,"  she  said,  with  great  magnanimity,  as  she 
concluded. 

"  Look  at  me,  Miss  Nathalie,"  said  Ledyard,  almost 
sternly.  "  I  tell  you  that  it  is  true,"  he  continued,  as  she 
complied  with  his  peremptory  request.  "  It  is  quite 
true,"  he  repeated.  "  Will  you  believe  that,  although  it 
be  true,  it  need  not  reflect  any  discredit  on  Mrs.  Hen- 
derson? Can  you  understand  that  there  was  no  impro- 
priety in  her  wishing  to  see  me,  and  that  her  method  of 
announcing  herself  was  the  mere  unconventionality  of  a 
woman  brought  up  in  the  country  ?" 

"  I  can  easily  understand  it.  Indeed,  who  could  have 
dreamed  that  Mrs.  Betterton  would  happen  to  be  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  way  ?" 

"  Mrs.  Betterton  !"  ejaculated  Richard.  "  Do  you 
mean  to  tell  me  that  it  was  Mrs.  Betterton  who  saw  it  ?" 
He  sprang  to  his  feet  in  consternation. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  it  was,"  replied  Nathalie,  pro- 
foundly sympathetic  over  this  revelation  of  the  full  extent 
of  the  misfortune. 

Indeed,  Ledyard  had  actually  grown  pale;  but  just 
then  he  heard  a  step  on  the  gravel  walk,  and,  looking 
up,  they  both  saw  Cynthia  approaching  them  from  the 
cottage.  "  Here  is  your  sister,"  he  said.  "  She  is  always 
wise  in  counsel,  perhaps  she  can  help  me." 

"  Oh,  Cynthia  !"  cried  Nathalie,  turning  to  her  as  she 
approached,  "  Mr.  Ledyard  has  got  into  such  trouble, 
and  he  wants  your  advice." 

"  Why,  what  is  the  matter  ?"  asked  Miss  Arkwrlght. 
"  Has  anything  gone  wrong  with  the  plan  for  the  open 
air  service  ?" 

"  On  the  contrary,"  replied  Ledyard,  advancing  to  take 
her  hand,  "  my  schemes  for  the  spiritual  improvement 
of  the  factory-people  seem  to  be  ripening  towards  the 
desired  result.  Lieutenant  Henderson  continues  to  be 
most  cordial  and  encouraging,  you  yourself  have  done 
more  than  any  one  else  could  do  to  interest  the  children 
in  the  idea  of  the  Sunday-school  and  to  persuade  their 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  2OI 

parents  to  give  me  a  hearing,  and  I  believe  even  Mr. 
Betterton  has  gone  so  far  as  to  speak  of  the  movement 
to  the  workmen." 

"  Add  to  this,"  rejoined  Cynthia,  "  that  Miss  Florence 
Betterton  has  made  a  timely  donation  of  clothes  to  one 
or  two  families,  who  could  not  otherwise  have  appeared, 
and  I  think  all  is  doing  as  well  as  could  be  expected. 
By  the  bye,"  Nathalie,  she  added,  turning  to  her  sister, 
"  I  must  not  forget  to  tell  you  that  Miss  Betterton  is  in  the 
parlor.  I  met  her  at  the  post-office,  and  she  professed 
to  miss  you  so  much,  and  to  be  so  anxious  to  see  you 
again,  that  I  invited  her  to  come  back  with  me,  although 
it  is  long  since  any  of  the  Betterton  family  have  been  in- 
side this  house,"  she  added,  with  a  touch  of  the  old  feel- 
ing of  antagonism  which  she  had  since  she  was  a  child. 

Nathalie  and  Ledyard  exchanged  glances.  They 
neither  of  them  knew  the  origin  of  Cynthia's  indignation 
with  Mrs.  Betterton,  which  belonged  to  ancient  history, 
but  they  both  sympathized  strongly  at  the  moment  with 
the  unexpressed  sentiment  which  she  betrayed,  and  yet 
each  felt  it  a  duty  to  exonerate  Miss  Betterton  from  the 
implied  accusation  involved  in  her  parentage. 

"Thank  you  for  asking  Florry  to  come,  dear  Cyn- 
thia," said  Nathalie,  softly,  as  she  approached  and  passed 
one  arm  through  that  of  her  sister,  looking  up  at  her 
with  the  peculiarly  confiding  expression  which  her  face 
could  sometimes  wear.  "  I  think  Florry  Betterton  is  a 
very  nice  girl,  and  not  at  all  fond  of  talking  about  people 
and  saying  ill-natured  things." 

"  Such  a  very  wise  person  must  surely  be  right,"  said 
Cynthia,  smiling  down  at  Nathalie,  whom  it  would  have 
cost  her  a  pang,  she  thought,  to  oppose  in  anything. 

Then  Nathalie  turned  and  said  a  word  of  farewell  to 
Ledyard,  such  a  word  as  any  one  might  have  said,  and 
hurried  into  the  house.  There  was  no  excuse  to  linger 
any  longer,  and  so  she  went  to  find  her  friend,  but  with 
a  vague  fear  at  her  heart  that  something  was  about  to 
happen — she  did  not  know  what — to  prevent  her  from 
seeing  Ledyard  again. 


2O2  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

"  I  agree  with  Miss  Nathalie,"  said  Richard  to  Cyn- 
thia after  she  was  gone.  "  Miss  Betterton  impresses  me 
as  a  woman  of  a  frank  and  generous  nature.  But  I  can 
easily  understand  the  feeling  you  have  about  her  mother." 
And  then  he  proceeded  to  tell  her  something  of  his  own 
trouble. 


CHAPTER   XXV. 

As  if  Fortune,  which  seemed  so  long  to  have  for- 
gotten Cynthia  Arkwright,  had  suddenly  determined  to 
fill  full  her  cup  of  affection,  she  received  an  answer  a 
day  or  two  later  to  the  letter  she  had  written  her  much- 
loved  Mrs.  Pelham,  in  which  she  was  told  that  her  friend 
was  just  about  to  sail  for  America  when  she  received  it, 
and  that  she  had  determined  to  do  so  at  once. 

"  Of  course  I  should  be  delighted  to  have  your  com- 
pany as  a  travelling  companion,  at  home  or  abroad,  my 
dearest  Cynthia,"  she  wrote ;  "  and  now  that  you  have 
revealed  yourself  to  me  as  a  living  being,  whom  I  had 
mourned  as  if  dead,  you  may  be  very  sure  that  I  shall 
not  lightly  part  with  you  again.  We  seem  both  to  be 
left  alone  in  the  world,  then  surely  we  should  be  to- 
gether; but  I  had  promised  Millard  to  return  this  au- 
tumn, and,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  my  impatience  to 
see  him  and  Posey,  and  above  all  their  bonnie  boy,  is 
bringing  me  back  a  little  sooner.  My  eyes  ache  to  once 
more  see  little  Wilfred.  He  had  such  a  look  of  Mr.  Pel- 
ham  at  times,  the  little  lad,  and  he  had  wound  himself 
round  my  old  woman's  heart  so,  that  I  miss  him  all  day 
long.  And  so,  dear  Cynthia,  you  will  see  me  almost  as 
soon  as  you  receive  this  letter ;  but  I  can  hardly  yet  be- 
lieve that  I  am  really  to  see  you  in  the  flesh.  Your  sym- 
pathetic spirit  has  never  been  absent  from  the  thoughts 
and  remembrance  of 

"  Your  true  friend, 

"SARAH  PELHAM." 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  2O3 

It  was  indeed  but  two  or  three  days  after  this  letter 
came  that  Cynthia,  who  had  been  sitting  near  the  win- 
dow in  her  bedroom,  whence  she  had  noticed  the  car- 
riage from  Fernwood  driving  by  towards  the  village  a 
half  an  hour  before,  suddenly  saw  it  returning,  and  when 
it  was  half-way  up  the  hill  was  surprised  by  its  stopping 
just  where  the  cart-track  branched  off  from  the  main 
road,  and  an  elderly  lady  being  assisted  to  alight  by  a 
gentleman  in  whom  she  unmistakably  recognized  Mil- 
lard  Henderson.  The  next  moment  Wilfred  sprang  out 
of  the  carriage  and  held  up  his  hand  to  the  lady,  who 
took  it,  gazing  down  at  him  with  affection,  and  then, 
leaning  on  Millard's  arm  and  still  holding  the  boy  by 
the  hand,  drew  near  to  Cynthia's  cottage.  Of  course, 
long  before  then,  Cynthia  knew  that  the  lady  was  Mrs. 
Pelham ;  but  it  was  well  for  her  to  have  this  distant  view 
and  a  moment  or  two  of  preparation  before  confront- 
ing her  friend,  for  it  broke  the  shock  which  she  could 
not  but  experience  at  the  inevitable  change  which  time 
had  made. 

Sarah  Pelham,  when  Cynthia  last  saw  her,  had  been  a 
woman  of  a  little  over  fifty,  with  dark  hair  and  dark- 
brown  eyes,  a  straight  figure  always  elegantly  and  suit- 
ably clad,  and  a  general  appearance  of  ease  and  enjoy- 
ment of  life,  if  not  of  youth  and  vigor.  She  was  thinner 
now,  and  slightly  bent.  Her  hair  still  retained  its  natural 
curl,  but  it  was  completely  turned  to  a  soft  tint  of  silver- 
gray.  Her  hands,  when  Cynthia  came  to  hold  them  in 
hers,  shook  just  a  little;  and  her  eyes,  when  she  looked 
into  them,  had  that  pathetic  forecast  of  the  gradual 
dimness  which  age  will  bring,  that  softens  a  brown  eye 
sometimes  to  hazel  and  adds  an  indefinable  touch  of 
tenderness  to  the  expression  of  warm  feeling. 

And  what  change  must  not  Sarah  Pelham,  in  her  turn, 
have  noted  in  the  triumphant  beauty  who  had  insisted 
on  casting  aside  the  world  and  all  the  homage  it  could 
offer,  to  bury  herself  in  a  distant  convent !  Cynthia's 
cheek  no  longer  wore  the  tint  of  youth.  Her  deeply- 
expressive  eyes  and  regal  brow  were  unchanged,  to  be 


204  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

sure,  but  there  was  a  faint  tracery  of  lines  about  the 
eyes  and  the  corners  of  the  mouth  which  told  of  strug- 
gle and  of  suffering.  There  were  others  on  the  brow 
which  told  of  thought;  and  although  the  curves  and 
outlines  of  the  face  and  features  were  still  beautiful, 
and  the  dark-brown  hair  still  grew  thick  and  glossy 
over  the  queenly  head,  although  her  figure  was  more 
finely  developed,  and  her  step  as  proud  as  when  she 
reigned  the  belle  of  that  short  season  so  many  years 
ago,  there  was  a  settled  sadness  now  in  her  wonted 
aspect  which  did  not  escape  the  loving  eyes  of  the 
friend  from  whom  she  had  so  long  been  severed. 

Long  they  stood  and  gazed  at  one  another.  Cynthia 
realized  all  that  her  friend  had  gone  through  in  the  way 
of  anxious  care  and  fading  hope  during  her  husband's 
lingering  illness,  and  perhaps  a  part  of  the  anguish  of 
heart  and  mental  struggle  which  she  herself  had  weath- 
ered was  so  plainly  written  that  Mrs.  Pelham  could  not 
but  read  it.  It  is  odd  how  little  we  gather  from  the 
mere  facts  of  one  another's  lives,  of  their  inner  signifi- 
cance, until  we  come  to  learn  it  thus  by  the  sympathetic 
insight  which  interprets  when  we  are  once  more  brought 
hand  to  hand  and  face  to  face.  Then  when  Mrs.  Pel- 
ham  had  been  brought  into  Cynthia's  cottage  and  made 
to  sit  by  the  open  wood-fire  that  was  so  grateful,  as  the 
day  was  damp ;  when  she  was  sipping  a  little  of  Miss 
Pinsley's  famous  cherry-bounce  and  nibbling  a  biscuit 
brought  by  the  delighted  Marjory  with  an  old  servant's 
greeting,  and,  Marjory  having  retired  with  a  respectful 
courtesy,  Nathalie  had  been  made  to  come  in,  and  had 
been  presented  and  exclaimed  over,  and  had  taken  Wil- 
fred away  to  prevent  him  from  giving  the  whole  plateful 
of  biscuit  to  Neptune,  and  Henderson  had  been  thanked 
with  a  very  sweet  smile  for  bringing  Mrs.  Pelham  first 
to  Cynthia,  and  had  gone  out  to  speak  to  the  coachman, 
quite  suddenly  and  without  any  apparent  reason  this 
self-reliant,  self-contained  Cynthia  burst  into  tears,  and 
Mrs.  Pelham,  who  was  old  enough  to  know  better,  be- 
ginning to  weep  also,  the  two  women  had  a  comfortable 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  2O$ 

cry  in  one  another's  arms,  with  the  result  of  both  be- 
coming exceedingly  happy  and  cheerful  by  the  time 
Henderson  returned  to  accompany  his  aunt  again  to  the 
carnage. 

He  did  this  with  a  look  of  great  satisfaction  at  once 
more  having  her  with  him ;  but  perhaps  he,  too,  had 
been  smothering  sad  recollections,  which  could  not  but 
be  awakened  by  seeing  her  reunited  to  Cynthia,  from 
whom  he  seemed  forever  put  apart.  The  truth  was  that 
Millard  was  much  less  happy  than  he  had  been  a  few 
weeks  before.  There  had  been  a  time  during  his  wife's 
convalescence  and  immediately  after  it  when  he  fancied 
that  he  was  entering  on  a  new  era  in  his  domestic  rela- 
tions at  the  same  time  that  he  was  inaugurating  a  new 
career  of  intellectual  activity  and  practical  usefulness. 
He  thought  that  he  and  Posey  were  more  in  accord — 
more  in  touch,  so  to  speak — than  ever  before. 

Even  up  to  the  time  of  her  departure  on  her  visit  to 
her  mother  he  had  been  full  of  hope,  and  a  kind  of 
hope  such  as  he  had  not  entertained  for  years,  but  with 
her  unexpected  return  all  had  been  changed,  and  he  had 
been  gradually  aroused  out  of  the  agreeable  absorption 
of  the  philanthropist  and  social  experimenter  by  a  vague 
anxiety,  which  grew  as  the  days  passed,  as  to  the  mental 
condition  of  his  wife.  She  slept  ill,  was  very  nervous, 
and  sat  doing  nothing  oftentimes  for  hours.  He  had 
consulted  Dr.  Danforth,  who  said  he  thought  it  must 
be  the  reaction  from  the  nervous  shock  of  her  accident, 
and  recommended  that  if  she  were  not  soon  better  she 
should  be  taken  to  a  more  bracing  air.  It  had  been 
just  as  these  symptoms  of  restlessness  in  his  wife  had 
first  begun  to  trouble  him  that  he  received  the  letter 
from  Mrs.  Pelham  announcing  her  approaching  return, 
which  was  so  soon  followed  by  her  arrival,  and  he  was 
even  more  glad  of  her  coming  than  he  would  otherwise 
have  been,  because  he  knew  how  wise  she  was  in  coun- 
sel, and  felt  sure  she  would  help  him  to  decide  what  it 
would  be  best  to  do. 

As  for  the  absurd  structure  which  it  had  suited  Mrs. 

18 


206  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

Betterton  to  erect  for  his  benefit,  he  believed  in  it  as  little 
as  if  it  had  been  a  palace  of  the  genii  in  the  "  Arabian 
Nights."  He  would  not  pain  his  wife  in  her  present  de- 
jected state  by  repeating  the  ill-natured  lie  to  her,  or 
wrong  Mr.  Ledyard  by  giving  it  a  second  thought.  He 
was  convinced  that  whatever  foundation  the  fabric  might 
have  rested  on  a  mistaken  identity,  and  perhaps  some 
urgent  call  on  the  young  clergyman  of  a  parishioner  in 
great  distress.  A  priest  might  have  a  hundred  unusual 
visitors,  just  as  a  doctor  might.  It  was  none  of  Millard's 
business,  and,  beyond  offering  to  himself  a  plausible  ex- 
planation of  the  scandalous  lie,  he  considered  it  of  too  small 
importance  to  give  it  his  serious  attention  for  a  moment. 

"  There  is  one  thing,  Aunt  Sarah,  about  which  I  am 
quite  determined,"  he  said  at  breakfast  the  morning  after 
Mrs.  Pelham's  arrival,  "  and  that  is,  never  to  ask  Mrs. 
Betterton  inside  my  house." 

"  Oh,  Millard,  Millard,  do  not  be  rash,  my  dear,  in 
making  resolutions !"  said  his  aunt.  "  I  am  sure  if 
Posey  can  bear  with  Mrs.  Betterton  you  should  be  able 
to  do  so,  and  I  doubt  whether  she  has  given  either  of 
you  half  the  provocation  which  I  managed  to  withstand 
in  the  old  days.  I  always  felt  it  would  be  so  undignified 
to  quarrel  with  the  wife  of  my  husband's  partner.  I  feel 
sure  Posey  will  agree  with  me,  do  you  not,  dear  ?" 

"  What  is  it,  Aunt  Pelham  ?  Were  you  speaking  to 
me?"  asked  Mrs.  Henderson,  looking  from  her  husband 
to  their  guest  with  an  empty  gaze  which  was  strangely 
unlike  her  usual  alertness  of  expression. 

"  It  is  nothing,  dear,"  said  Millard,  quickly,  making  a 
sign  to  his  aunt  not  to  repeat  her  question.  "  We  were 
only  thinking  whom  it  would  be  pleasant  to  ask  to  Fern- 
wood  to  celebrate  Aunt  Sarah's  return." 

"  To  dinner,  you  mean  ?"  inquired  Posey,  nervously. 

"  Yes,  of  course,"  said  Henderson.  "  There  are  one 
or  two  persons  whom  I  am  particularly  anxious  to  have 
you  meet,"  he  continued,  turning  to  Mrs.  Pelham. 
"  There  is  Danforth,  for  instance,  who  is  such  a  good 
fellow,  and  to  whom  I  owe  an  everlasting  debt  of  grati- 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  2O/ 

tude  for  his  care  of  Posey  after  her  accident.  Then 
there  is  Mr.  Ledyard,  who  is  one  of  the  most  con- 
scientious and  hard-working  men  of  his  cloth  whom  I 
have  ever  known,  besides  being  an  uncommonly  good 
preacher." 

"  We  must  not  have  all  gentlemen,"  said  Posey,  who 
had  come  out  of  her  abstraction  and  suddenly  began  to 
pay  keen  attention  to  what  was  being  said. 

"  Oh,  no !  There  is  Florence  Betterton,  for  instance, 
who  has  grown  up  since  Aunt  Sarah's  day,  and  is  really 
a  very  good  sort  of  a  girl.  We  might  ask  her  and 
her  brother  Tom,"  rejoined  Henderson ;  "  and  that 
would  be  throwing  a  sop  to  Cerberus,"  he  added,  with 
a  mischievous  glance  at  his  aunt. 

"  You  surely  would  not  leave  out  the  friend  at  whose 
hands  I  have  received  most  hospitality?"  said  Posey, 
with  unusual  warmth.  "  If  any  one  is  asked  to  dine 
with  us,  I  think  that  Miss  Arkwright  and  her  sister 
should  be  asked." 

"  Oh,  Cynthia,  of  course !"  cried  Mrs.  Pelham.  "  If 
any  one  is  to  be  asked  on  my  account,  I  should  plead 
for  her  first" 

Now,  the  truth  was  that  Cynthia's  name  had  been  the 
first  in  Millard's  thoughts  also,  but  he  had  not  wished, 
for  all  that,  to  be  the  first  person  to  suggest  it.  He  was 
delighted  that  Posey  should  have  done  so,  and  he  was 
also  pleased  at  the  evident  sincerity  with  which  she 
spoke  of  the  kindness  that  she  had  received  from  Miss 
Arkwright. 

"  How  pretty  Nathalie  Arkwright  has  grown  up  to  be, 
Mtllard !"  said  his  aunt.  "  I  had  no  idea  that  she  would 
turn  out  such  an  attractive  girl." 

"  Yes,  she  is  very  pretty,  certainly.  I  remember  she 
was  always  rather  well-looking  even  as  a  child,"  said 
Millard,  indifferently ;  "  but  I  never  can  see  her  without 
thinking  how  unfair  it  is  that  she  should  inherit  her 
father's  entire  fortune  and  her  older  sister  be  cut  off  with 
nothing  but  the  little  pittance  which  was  left  her  by  her 
great-aunt" 


208  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

"  It  does  seem  most  unfair,"  returned  Mrs.  Pelham, 
"but  it  was  all  owing  to  that  strange  fancy  the  dear  girl 
took  of  going  into  a  convent.  Of  course  her  father 
would  not  have  thought  of  disinheriting  her  if  it  had 
not  been  for  that." 

Millard  said  nothing  more,  and  so  the  subject  dropped, 
but  that  of  the  dinner-party  was  further  discussed,  until 
it  was  agreed  that  Mrs.  Henderson  should  write  to  Cyn- 
thia and  Florence  Betterton  that  very  morning,  and  that 
Millard  should  send  notes  to  Dr.  Danforth  and  Mr.  Led- 
yard.  He  was  for  calling  on  the  two  men  at  first  and 
asking  them  in  person,  but  to  this  suggestion  Posey  sud- 
denly and  violently  opposed  herself. 

A  note,  she  said,  was  much  more  complimentary  than 
a  verbal  invitation,  and,  besides,  it  had  the  advantage  of 
serving  as  a  memorandum  as  to  the  day  and  the  hour. 
In  all  of  which  worldly  wisdom  Mrs.  Pelham  entirely 
agreed  with  her,  and  so  things  were  settled. 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 

IT  will  be  remembered  that  Nathalie  Arkwright  had 
spoken  with  eloquence  and  indignation  in  defence  of  Mr. 
Ledyard's  character  when  Mrs.  Betterton  had  been  so 
injudicious  as  to  accuse  him  of  being  a  trifler  with 
woman's  affection,  but  after  their  prolonged  conversa- 
tion in  the  garden  certain  grave  doubts  would  intrude 
themselves  even  upon  her  unbiassed  mind  as  to  whether 
he  might  not  occasionally  allow  himself  to  express  a 
little  more  by  a  look  or  a  gesture  than  circumstances 
warranted.  The  result  of  these  speculations  was  gener- 
ally, it  is  true,  entirely  to  exonerate  the  offender ;  but  this 
was  because  Nathalie  was  wont  to  be  in  a  happy  mood. 
There  came  moments,  and  lingering  ones  at  that,  in  which 
she  said  to  herself  that  she  was  a  very  foolish  girl  to 
suppose  that  in  the  course  of  their  short  acquaintance 


isKOKEN  CHORDS.  209 

Mr.  Ledyard  had  really  come  to  care  for  her;  and  yet, 
if  he  had  not,  what  was  the  meaning  of  that  rapt  ex- 
pression of  the  eyes,  or  that  thrilling  modulation  of  the 
voice,  or  the  infinitely  fleeting  yet  tender  touch  with 
which  he  had  taken  the  rose-bud  from  her  fingers, 
that  she  had  afterwards  seen  him  hide  hastily  away  as 
Cynthia  came  in  sight?  Surely  any  woman  might  be 
pardoned  for  noting  these  things  ;  and  should  they  mean 
nothing,  they  were  rather  misleading. 

"  Did  they  indeed  mean  nothing  ?  Could  it  be  all 
sweet  feigning  ?"  she  would  ask  herself.  And  if  the 
answer  came  that  it  could  not,  it  was,  strange  to  say,  not 
based  on  the  belief  in  her  own  personal  charms,  which 
had  been  established  in  her  youth  by  a  good  deal  of 
flattery  and  fed  as  she  grew  out  of  childhood  by  much 
corroborating  testimony,  but  on  another  ground ;  for 
with  the  self-depreciation  indicative  of  awakening  love 
she  began  suddenly  to  realize  her  own  short-comings, — 
what  a  narrow  artificial  world  she  had  lived  in ;  how 
ignorant  and  how  vain  she  seemed  to  have  been. 

Thus,  when  she  told  herself  in  sanguine  moments 
that  surely  he  must  love  her,  it  was  only  because  of  the 
conviction  in  his  honesty  of  heart  and  sincerity  of  pur- 
pose, which  had  been  strong  within  her  from  the  moment 
she  had  first  seen  him. 

How  astonished  would  Ledyard  have  been  had  he 
dreamed  that  his  secret  was  out,  and  that  the  deep  and 
tender  feeling  for  this  girl  who  had  been  as  a  stranger 
to  him  three  weeks  before,  which  he  deemed  as  hopeless 
as  it  was  strong,  but  believed  to  be  buried  in  the  recesses 
of  his  own  consciousness,  was  already  half  suspected  and 
half  feared  by  its  object ! 

He  was  in  a  sufficiently  disturbed  frame  of  mind  as 
it  was,  without  any  such  added  complication.  He  and 
Cynthia,  to  whom  he  confided  all  that  he  had  previously 
told  her  sister,  decided  that  it  would  never  do  for  him 
to  think  of  leaving  Dundaff  before  the  Sunday  when  it 
had  been  on  all  sides  announced  that  he  would  preach 
to  the  people  in  the  woods.  It  chanced  to  be  Friday 
o  18* 


210  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

morning  when  he  received  the  news  which  rendered  his 
journey  so  very  necessary,  and  Sunday  was  already  too 
near  for  there  to  be  any  hope  of  his  being  able  to  go 
and  return  before  it.  In  truth,  he  was  fully  alive  to 
the  importance  of  keeping  the  promises  to  the  people 
which  had  been  made  for  him,  only  he  was  unnerved. 
"  You  must  not  sacrifice  yourself  entirely  to  this  mys- 
terious duty,  whatever  it  may  be,"  Cynthia  had  said, 
with  her  kindest  expression.  And,  lowering  his  eyes 
with  a  faint  flush,  Ledyard  had  told  her  that  his  anxiety 
in  the  matter  was  not  entirely  disinterested. 

"  Indeed,"  he  added,  "  if  I  did  not  feel  that  I  had 
done  wrong  myself,  I  might  not  be  so  anxious  to  avert 
the  consequences  from  another  person.  On  the  other 
hand,"  he  continued,  speaking  half  to  himself  and  half 
to  her,  "  this  man  whose  return  is  so  unexpected,  and 
the  possible  result  of  which  I  so  much  dread,  was  many, 
many  miles  distant  when  the  letter  was  written  by  which 
I  learned  that  he  was  alive,  and,  although  surely  drawing 
nearer,  could  not,  I  think,  in  all  human  possibility,  get 
to  this  part  of  the  world  for  three  or  four  days  or  a 
week,  so  that  I  may  yet  be  in  time  to  arrest  him  by 
starting  early  on  Monday  morning." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  you  can,"  returned  Cynthia,  encour- 
agingly. She  was  convinced  that  he  was  really  unselfish 
in  his  anxiety,  in  spite  of  all  that  he  might  say  to  the 
contrary.  She  was  determined  to  prevent  the  overthrow 
of  the  confidence  which  he  had  built  up  among  his 
would-be  parishioners,  by  so  much  anxious  care  and 
^ffort,  in  a  moment  of  quixotic  self-abnegation. 

After  all,  the  next  Sunday  proved  rainy,  as  was  prob- 
ably fortunate  for  him  in  his  present  anxious  condition, 
so  that  he  was  not  called  upon  to  deliver  his  first  ad- 
dress to  the  workingmen,  on  which  so  much  of  his 
future  success  might  depend,  with  a  distracted  attention 
or  half-hearted  enthusiasm,  that  day. 

In  leaving  Dundaff  on  the  Monday  morning  he  gave 
the  address  of  a  hotel  in  New  York  to  his  housekeeper 
to  which  all  letters  or  notes  were  to  be  sent.  Thus, 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  211 

when  Henderson's  note  came  on  the  following  Tues- 
day inviting  him  to  dine  at  Fernwood  on  the  Satur- 
day, it  was  immediately  forwarded,  and  he  enclosed  in 
reply  a  courteous  acceptance  in  an  envelope  addressed 
to  Mrs.  Fowler,  asking  her  to  send  it  at  once  by  hand 
to  Fernwood.  Here  it  arrived  on  Thursday  evening 
and  was  read  by  Millard  with  great  satisfaction.  He 
was  naturally  hospitable,  and  liked  the  idea  of  enter- 
taining his  friends  in  his  own  house,  which,  owing  to  his 
hitherto  wandering  life,  he  had  had  little  opportunity  of 
doing. 

"  Well,  Posey,  what  luck  have  you  had  ?"  he  asked, 
crossing  the  hall  from  his  study  to  the  drawing-room, 
where  Mrs.  Pelham  and  his  wife  were  sitting  beside  a 
low  lamp,  the  older  lady  absorbed  in  a  bit  of  crochet- 
work,  with  her  gold  eye-glasses  on  her  nose  and  a  tiny 
white  lace  cap  resting  on  her  pretty  gray  hair. 

"  What  luck  ?"  repeated  Posey,  with  surprise.  She 
was  not  working,  as  Mrs.  Pelham  was,  but  at  the  moment 
her  husband  entered  seemed  to  have  been  writing  a  note 
or  letter,  which  she  hastily  folded  and  attempted  to 
put  in  her  pocket,  glancing  up  at  him  anxiously. 

"  Yes.  What  answers  have  you  had  from  your  two 
guests?  Both  mine  have  accepted,"  responded  Hen- 
derson, triumphantly. 

"  My  guests  ?  Oh,  the  people  who  are  coming  to 
dinner,  you  mean  ?  I  had  a  note  from  Miss  Betterton 
accepting  for  herself  and  her  brother,  and  that  is  all." 

"  Did  you  not  hear  from  Cynthia  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Pel- 
ham,  with  astonishment.  "  Why,  I  thought  I  saw  a 
note  to  you,  dear,  addressed  in  her  handwriting." 

"  No,  Aunt  Pelham,  I  think  not.  I  have  had  no  note 
from  Miss  Arkwright." 

"  Why,  yes,  Posey,  for  there  it  is  lying  on  the  table 
beside  you.  You  must  have  forgotten  to  open  it.  It 
was  brought  in  just  after  you  had  begun  the  one  you 
were  writing,  and  that  probably  diverted  your  attention." 

"  To  whom,  dear,  were  you  writing  ?"  asked  Millard, 
curiously. 


212  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

Posey  flushed  hotly,  and,  thrusting  the  half-written 
note  out  of  sight,  began  nervously  to  open  the  sealed 
missive  from  Cynthia,  without  answering  her  husband's 
question. '  "  Miss  Arkwright  and  her  sister  are  coming 
also,"  she  said,  as  she  glanced  down  the  page :  "  so  it 
seems  that  all  our  guests  are  favorable  to  the  idea  of 
meeting  Aunt  Pelham." 

It  was  evident  that  she  made  an  effort  to  speak  cheer- 
fully and  to  enter  into  her  husband's  pleasurable  expec- 
tation ;  and  although  her  effort  was  apparent,  even  to 
Mrs.  Pelham,  whom  Henderson  had  not  yet  found  an 
opportunity  to  consult  with  regard  to  the  anxiety  he 
felt  about  his  wife,  yet  the  incident  passed  without 
further  notice  than  her  surprise  at  Posey's  agitation. 

She  was  still  further  surprised  the  next  morning,  after 
Henderson  had  ridden  away  to  the  factory,  leaving 
Wilfred  in  her  charge,  that  when  she  suggested  to  the 
boy  to  walk  with  her,  as  he  always  seemed  to  enjoy 
doing,  he  thanked  her  politely  but  declined. 

"  Not  this  morning,  please.  Another  time,  dear 
aunty,"  he  said,  giving  an  answer  such  as  he  had  often 
been  put  off  with  himself,  no  doubt,  from  a  request 
which  chanced  to  be  inconvenient.  "  There  is  something 
which  mamma  wants  me  to  do  for  her,"  he  continued, 
with  an  air  of  childish  importance.  "  It  is  something 
which  she  would  not  trust  to  any  one  else,  and  I  am  not 
to  tell  what  it  is,  but  I  am  to  ride  all  alone  to  the 
village." 

"  All  alone,  dear  ?  Without  Malachi  ?"  inquired  his 
aunt,  anxiously. 

"  Yes,  mamma  says  that  I  am  to  go  all  alone,  and  if 
I  am  very  good  and  ride  carefully  I  may  stop  and  get 
some  candy  at  Duffy's.  What  do  you  think  of  that?" 
he  asked,  forgetting  his  dignity  in  his  delight. 

Mrs.  Pelham  thought  it  was  a  very  foolish  plan,  and 
not  a  very  safe  one,  but  she  did  not  say  so.  She  asked 
in  her  turn,  "  Have  you  ever  before  been  allowed  to  ride 
to  the  village  alone,  Wilfred,  and  does  papa  know  of 
your  going  ?" 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  21 3 

"  No,  aunty.  I  told  you  that  I  was  to  say  nothing  to 
any  one.  Of  course,  I  spoke  of  it  to  you  because  you 
asked  me  to  walk ;  but  now  I  must  go,"  he  added,  with 
an  indulgent  manner,  evidently  copied  from  his  experi- 
ence of  the  way  that  an  older  person  was  often  obliged 
to  put  a  stop  to  the  irrelevant  questions  of  childhood. 
His  aunt  could  not  help  smiling,  but  he  offered  his  rosy 
cheek  to  be  kissed  with  such  an  evident  enjoyment  of 
his  new  sense  of  independence  that  she  had  not  the 
heart  to  say  more.  She  watched  him  ride  away  with 
great  misgiving,  feeling  almost  sure  that  his  father  would 
not  have  allowed  him  to  go  alone,  and  yet  not  thinking 
it  wise  to  interfere  openly  between  the  mother  and  son. 
Then  a  plan  occurred  to  her. 

As  soon  as  he  was  gone  she  asked  for  the  pony-car- 
riage, and  suggested  to  Posey  that  they  should  drive. 
Then,  finding  her  indisposed  to  take  the  air,  she  said 
that  she  would  like  to  go  to  see  Cynthia,  which  was  true 
enough.  Once  away  from  the  house,  she  bade  Malachi 
drive  as  fast  as  possible,  and  before  very  long  had  the 
satisfaction  of  seeing  Wilfred's  little  straw  hat  and  sunny 
curls  disappearing  through  a  long  vista  of  overhanging 
trees.  The  pony  was  ambling  along  gently  enough, 
while  the  little  boyish  figure  was  as  immovable  as  he 
had  been  taught  to  be,  and  entirely  in  accord  with  the 
motions  of  the  animal. 

"  I  should  like  to  keep  Master  Wilfred  in  sight,  Mala- 
chi," she  said  to  the  faithful  old  darky,  "  but  would 
rather  he  did  not  see  that  we  are  behind  him." 

"  Yaas,  Mis'  Pelham.  I  un'erstand,  marm,"  returned 
Malachi  eagerly.  And  her  instructions  were  carefully 
carried  out,  both  then  and  later,  for  while  she  stopped  at 
Cynthia's  cottage  she  sent  the  pony-wagon  into  the 
village  with  the  same  directions,  and  when,  his  com- 
mission ended,  Wilfred  had  gone  safely  by  the  cottage 
again  on  his  way  back  to  Fernwood,  Malachi  came 
and  waited  on  the  side  of  the  hill  until  Mrs.  Pelham 
was  ready  to  drive  home  also. 

"Bress   de   chile,  Mis'  Pelham,  marm.     I  hope  you 


214  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

beent  goin'  to  'quire  old  Malachi  to  tell  his  pa  dat  he 
hab  been  goin'  to  Duffy's  and  buy  candy  widout 
orders  ?"  he  asked,  anxiously. 

"  On  the  contrary,"  said  Mrs.  Pelham,  "  I  do  not  want 
to  know  where  Master  Wilfred  went  myself,  or  what  he 
did,  and  in  case  any  one  asks  you,  you  are  not  to  know 
either.  All  that  you  are  concerned  with  is  the  fact  that 
he  went  safely.  Do  you  understand  ?  Now  drive  home." 

"Yaas,  Mis'  Pelham,  marm.  I  jis'  un'erstands  es- 
ackly  what  you  means,  marm,"  returned  Malachi,  de- 
lighted. 

But  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Pelham's  honest  abhorrence  of 
anything  in  the  nature  of  prying,  and  of  her  deter- 
mination not  to  be  told  of  Wilfred's  errand,  she  was 
doomed  to  know  the  very  thing  of  which  she  de- 
sired to  be  ignorant,  for  as  she  entered  the  dining- 
room,  whither  she  had  been  summoned  to  luncheon, 
she  heard  Wilfred's  voice  speaking  to  his  mother  on 
the  other  side  of  the  India-silk  curtain  which  hung 
in  the  wide  door-way  between  the  dining-  and  drawing- 
rooms. 

"  Indeed,  mamma,  the  woman  said  that  Mr.  Ledyard 
was  not  there.  She  said  he  was  gone  away." 

"  That  is  impossible,"  said  his  mother,  in  a  low,  impa- 
tient tone.  "  He  was  there  only  last  evening." 

"  She  said,  mamma,  that  he  was  gone  to  New  York, 
and  she  wanted  me  to  give  her  the  note  to  send  to  him, 
but  I  told  her  how  you  had  said  that  I  was  to  give 
it  to  him  -myself,  and  not  to  any  one  else,  and  so — 
and  so " 

"  And  so  you  kept  it  ?  I  only  wish  you  had  kept 
quiet,  too.  Here,  give  it  to  me, — or  no,  put  it  in  that 
basket  there.  Quick !  Quick,  I  tell  you  !" 

The  last  words  were  spoken  in  extreme  agitation,  and 
the  next  moment  Mrs.  Pelham  heard  Millard's  voice 
in  the  hall-way,  and  he  entered  the  drawing-room,  bring- 
ing a  great  draught  of  cold  air  with  him,  which  puffed 
out  the  thin  curtains  even  before  he  came  between  them 
himself,  followed  by  Mrs.  Henderson  and  Wilfred,  both 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  21$ 

looking  flushed  and  excited  and  the  boy  greatly  crest- 
fallen. 

Millard,  however,  was  in  such  excellent  spirits  after 
his  long  ride  to  the  factory,  and  so  absorbed  in  some  new 
ideas  of  reform  which  he  immediately  began  explaining 
to  his  aunt,  that  the  uncomfortable  constraint  which 
Mrs.  Pelham  momentarily  experienced  at  the  sense  of 
something  in  the  air  which  was  not  healthy,  soon  passed 
off.  When  her  mind  reverted  to  it  later,  she  was  a 
good  deal  surprised  at  what  she  had  heard ;  she  put  it 
aside  with  a  resolution  not  to  think  of  it  again,  as  it 
certainly  could  not  in  any  way  be  considered  a  matter 
with  which  she  was  concerned,  and  was  probably  capable 
of  some  very  simple  explanation. 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 

DR.  DANFORTH  was  summoned  about  this  time  to 
Camelot  to  see  old  Mr.  Betterton,  who  had  taken  a  very 
bad  cold.  Danforth  had  been  called  on  often  to  go  to 
Camelot  during  the  past  nine  or  ten  years  whenever 
anything  was  wrong  with  the  household,  from  the  least 
important  member  of  it  to  Mrs.  Betterton  herself,  and 
ever  since  Tom  and  Florence  had  had  the  scarlet  fever, 
when  they  were  children,  had  formed  the  habit  of  stuffing 
something  in  his  pocket  which  he  thought,  according  to 
his  Western  vernacular,  would  "  please  the  youngsters" 
when  he  went. 

With  regard  to  one  of  them,  at  least,  this  habit  had 
continued,  although  not  with  regard  to  the  other.  Mr. 
Thomas  Betterton  would,  indeed,  have  been  rather  sur- 
prised— now  that  he  wished  to  be  thought  the  glass  of 
fashion  and  the  mould  of  form  in  the  gay  world — if,  on 
his  rare  visits  to  Camelot,  such  indisposition  as  might 
befall  him  had  been  soothed  by  an  orange  or  ameliorated 


2l6  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

by  the  considerate  offer  of  a  nosegay  from  the  family 
doctor.  But  with  Florence  it  was  different. 

A  girl  always  likes  flowers  as  an  attention,  although 
her  father's  garden  may  be  full  of  them,  and  the  old- 
fashioned  cornucopia  filled  with  village  candy  being  re- 
placed by  a  box  of  French  bonbons  still  proved  accept- 
able to  Miss  Betterton.  It  was  so  much  a  matter  of  course 
that  George  Danforth  should  bring  her  something  when  he 
came  to  see  them,  professionally  or  otherwise,  that  Flor- 
ence would  have  thought  that  she  must  have  managed 
unintentionally  to  offend  him  had  he  omitted  to  do  so. 

To  be  sure,  it  did  occasionally  happen  that,  when  first 
summoned  as  a  doctor,  especially  if  the  call  were  urgent, 
he  might  not  have  a  gift  to  bring,  and  so  must  come 
empty-handed ;  but  by  his  second  visit  he  was  certain  to 
have  provided  himself,  and  Florence  was  generally  on 
the  lookout  for  him  at  the  parlor  window,  and  would  fly 
into  the  entry  as  his  chaise  drove  up  to  the  house,  and, 
getting  ahead  of  the  functionary  whose  business  it  was 
to  open  the  door,  would  fling  it  wide  for  him  herself, 
with  just  as  much  pleasure  in  the  supposed  surprise  when 
a  young  lady  of  eighteen  as  when  she  was  a  child  of  nine 
years  old. 

From  Florence's  point  of  view,  Danforth  was  also  the 
same  grown-up  playfellow  now  that  he  had  been  then. 
He  was  so  much  older  than  herself  that  it  never  occurred 
to  her  to  think  of  him  in  any  other  light ;  but  Dr.  Dan- 
forth harbored  a  very  tender  feeling  for  "  little  Florry," 
as  he  called  her  in  his  thoughts,  although  not  a  feeling 
of  which  he  ever  intended  to  ask  a  return.  He  knew 
quite  well  that  it  was  confidently  hoped  that  Florence 
would  make  a  very  grand  marriage  indeed,  and  he  could 
no  more  bend  his  pride  to  the  prospect  of  being  rejected 
by  Mrs.  Betterton,  with  such  scorn  as  he  conceived  her 
likely  to  heap  on  his  pretensions  did  she  dream  of  them, 
than  he  could  to  being  said  to  have  "  married  for  money," 
in  the  unlikely  event  of  his  suit  being  viewed  more  favor- 
ably, for  he  was  quite  aware  of  his  disadvantages  of  age 
and  fortune. 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  21? 

On  the  occasion  of  his  first  visit  this  time  he  found 
Mr.  Betterton  much  more  ill  than  he  supposed  from  the 
message  which  had  reached  him,  and  was  further  sur- 
prised by  the  old  man's  making  it  evident  to  him  that  he 
was  quite  aware  of  his  own  critical  condition  and  rather 
preferred  that  his  wife  and  children  should  not  share  the 
information. 

"Do  you  think  you  can  pull  me  through,  doctor?" 
he  asked,  confidentially,  after  Dan  forth  had  examined 
him  thoroughly  as  a  patient. 

"  I  think  so,  Mr.  Betterton." 

"  Will  you  make  me  a  promise  that,  if  so  be  you  can- 
not, you  will  tell  me  first,  and  not  set  the  tongues  of  the 
women  to  clamoring  ?" 

"I  will,  indeed;  but,  as  you  require  careful  nursing 
quite  as  much  as  medicine,  you  must  allow  me  to  speak 
of  the  gravity  of  your  illness  now  to  some  member  of 
your  family.  To  whom  shall  it  be  ?" 

"  To  whom  would  you  rather  be  speaking  now  in 
all  the  household  ?  Tell  me  the  truth,  man,"  replied 
the  old  fellow,  with  a  humorous  twinkle  in  his  small 
eyes. 

"  To  whomsoever  you  are  willing  to  have  come  up 
here  and  take  you  in  hand,  sir.  Would  you  rather  that 
it  should  be  your  son  ?  I  warn  you  that  I  shall  give 
very  decided  directions,  and  -if  you  are  not  better  to- 
morrow shall  send  for  a  trained  nurse." 

"  But  that  is  not  answering  the  question  I  asked  you, 
doctor  ?" 

"  Well,  if  you  ask  me  as  a  doctor"  replied  Danforth, 
not  by  any  means  so  unconscious  as  he  chose  to  appear 
of  the  old  man's  real  meaning,  "  I  think  that  Miss  Flor- 
ence would  make  the  best  nurse." 

"  Then  you  would  really  rather  speak  to  her  than  to 
her  mother,  but  it  is  only  as  a  doctor  ?" 

"  Come,  sir,"  replied  Danforth,  desperately,  "  which 
would  you  rather  have  for  a  care-taker,  Mrs.  Betterton 
or  your  daughter  ?" 

"  I  am  not  going  to  go  back  on  my  good  woman,"  re- 
K  19 


21 8  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

turned  the  patient  stoutly,  in  answer  to  a  certain  threat- 
ening expression  in  the  doctor's  eyes  as  he  uttered  the 
name  of  Mrs.  Betterton ;  "but  she  is  not  just  soothing 
for  a  sick-room ;  and  Tom  is  a  fool  about  everything  but 
spending  money.  He  is  clever  enough  at  that,  indeed  ; 
but  you  may  as  well  call  Florry." 

Danforth  did  as  he  was  bidden,  but  he  was  so  much 
surprised  by  the  unexpected  discovery  that  his  secret  had 
been  guessed  by  the  last  person  in  the  house  whom  he 
thought  likely  to  suspect  it  that  he  felt  unusually  shy  and 
awkward  in  the  presence  of  his  sweetheart,  and  instead 
of  breaking  the  fact  of  her  father's  serious  illness  to 
her  gently,  as  he  would  otherwise  naturally  have  done, 
he  merely  gave  her  his  directions  with  great  clearness 
and  decision  in  the  presence  of  the  patient  and  then 
went  away.  Florence,  wondering  why  George  was  so 
"  cross,"  began  to  feel  rather  sore  at  heart,  as  well  as 
"sure  there  must  be"  grave  cause  for  anxiety  in  her 
father's  condition.  This  was  indeed  true,  as  well  as  that 
Florence  was  really  fond  of  her  father.  She  threw  all  the 
strength  of  her  nature,  therefore,  into  the  effort  to  do 
exactly  as  she  was  told. 

When  Danforth  came  again  that  evening  and  twice  the 
next  day,  she  was  still  more  anxious ;  but  the  day  after 
he  looked  less  solemn,  although  she  was  too  much  dis- 
turbed in  mind  to  run  to  meet  him.  On  the  fourth  day 
things  were  more  as  usual,  yet  there  was  none  of  the 
pleasant  loitering  in  the  parlor  or  the  entry  which  he 
sometimes  permitted  himself,  nor  did  Danforth  appear 
to  have  any  offering  for  Miss  Betterton.  Thanking  her 
formally  for  opening  the  door  for  him,  instead  of  with 
the  frank  cordiality  of  manner  that  was  habitual  to  him, 
he  went  directly  to  her  father's  room ;  but  he  found  Mr. 
Betterton  decidedly  better  and  beginning  to  grow  quite 
cheerful. 

"  She  is  a  pretty  good  nurse,  Danforth,"  said  the 
latter,  as  they  stood  on  either  side  of  his  bed.  "  I  be- 
lieve you  are  right  to  like  her,  as  a  doctor.  It's  a  pity 
you  cannot  in  another  way,"  he  continued,  with  a  sly 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  2ig 

laugh,  putting  his  rough  mechanic's  hand  over  his  thin, 
curving  mouth  so  as  rather  to  display  than  to  conceal 
his  amusement. 

Despite  his  pride  in  the  rapid  recovery  of  his  patient, 
Danforth  could  have  done  anything,  short  of  wring- 
ing his  neck,  to  keep  him  from  saying  any  more,  but 
glancing  at  Florence,  he  saw  only  a  slightly  surprised 
expression  on  her  face.  It  was  evident  that  she  had 
no  key  to  the  cause  of  her  father's  merriment.  "  So  far 
so  good,"  he  thought,  but  the  more  quickly  he  got  her 
away  the  better. 

"  May  I  speak  to  you  in  the  next  room  for  a  moment, 
Miss  Florence  ?"  he  asked,  distantly. 

She  assented,  and  nurse  and  doctor  retired. 

"  Have  I  done  anything  to  make  father  worse  ?"  in- 
quired Florence,  anxiously. 

"  On  the  contrary,  by  your  faithful  and  devoted  care 
of  him  I  think  you  have  saved  his  life.  On  Monday 
he  was  suffering  with  an  acute  attack  of  pneumonia. 
To-day  the  inflammation  has  much  subsided,  and  if  he 
continues  to  do  as  well  to-morrow  I  shall  consider  him 
out  of  danger." 

"  Oh,  how  thankful  I  am !  Do  you  know,  doctor,  I 
was  sure  he  was  very  ill  by  the  way  you  looked  at  me? 
If  it  had  not  been  for  that,  I  should  have  fancied  you 
were  angry." 

"  How  absurd !  Why  should  you  have  fancied  any- 
thing so  nonsensical  ?"  He  drummed  nervously  on  the 
window-pane. 

"  Well,  only  on  account  of  your  way  of  looking  and 
— and  speaking.  Besides,"  she  added,  regaining  some- 
thing, of  the  spoiled  child's  audacity  which  usually 
characterized  her  with  those  she  knew  well,  "  you 
have  not  brought  me  anything  pretty,  as  you  generally 
do," 

"  Yes,  I  have." 

"  What  is  it?"  she  asked,  all  smiles  and  blushes. 

He  drew  from  his  pocket  an  oval  stone  about  the 
size  of  the  palm  of  his  hand,  on  the  surface  of  which. 


220  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

worn  smooth  by  long  friction,  was  painted  a  geyser  in 
full  play,  against  a  cloudless  blue  sky,  with  orange- 
colored  earth  all  round  it. 

"  Where  did  you  get  it?" 

"A  friend  of  mine  has  just  brought  it  to  me  from  the 
West.  He  painted  it  himself.  It  is  a  fountain  in  the 
National  Park." 

"  How  curious  it  is,  and  how  well  done !  He  must 
be  an  artist." 

"  So  he  is.  And  now  good-by  until  to-morrow.  Keep 
on  doing  exactly  the  same  things,  and  I  will  come  early." 

He  wondered,  as  he  went  his  way,  what  he  could  have 
said  or  done  which  had  betrayed  his  weakness  to  Mr. 
Betterton.  He  knew  that  he  had  never  been  conscious 
of  an  act  to  lead  to  the  faintest  suspicion  of  the  condi- 
tion of  his  heart  in  the  mind  of  any  member  of  the  Bet- 
terton family,  although  one  or  two  of  his  men  acquaint- 
ances, with  whom  he  might  be  less  guarded  in  his  words 
and  looks  when  speaking  of  Miss  Betterton,  especially 
of  an  evening  after  a  stiff  glass  of  punch,  shrewdly  sus- 
pected the  truth. 

Among  these  was  Millard  Henderson,  who  had  taken 
the  privilege  of  an  old  friend  to  repeat  his  suspicion  to 
his  wife,  as  may  be  remembered,  some  six  weeks  before 
the  time  of  the  dinner  which  he  was  about  to  give  in 
honor  of  his  aunt's  return.  It  was  very  natural  indeed, 
therefore,  that  talking  matters  over  he  and  Posey  should 
decide  that  Dr.  Danforth  must  go  in  to  dinner  with 
Miss  Florence  Betterton.  It  was  further  arranged  by 
Mrs.  Henderson  that  Mrs.  Pelham  and  Mr.  Ledyard 
should  go  in  together,  and  that  Millard  should  take  in 
Miss  Arkwright,  while  she  and  Nathalie  and  Mr.  Thomas 
Betterton  were  all  to  go  together  at  the  end  as  an  in- 
formal trio.  But  the  day  before  the  dinner  these  plans 
were  upset  by  Henderson's  receiving  a  hasty  note  from 
Dr.  Danforth  and  an  equally  unexpected  one  from  Mr. 
Ledyard. 

The  first  said  that  Dr.  Danforth  was  about  to  take  the 
very  great  liberty  of  asking  if  he  might  bring  a  friend 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  221 

with  him  to  Fernwood  who  had  come  without  notice 
to  make  him  a  visit,  but  he  could  not  help  hoping  oppor- 
tunely, as  he  believed  him  to  be  a  man  whom  Hen- 
derson could  not  fail  to  enjoy  meeting,  and  one  who 
might  also  be  acceptable  to  Mrs.  Henderson, — in  short, 
an  agreeable  addition  to  any  dinner. 

The  second  note  was  dated  from  New  York,  and 
informed  Lieutenant  Henderson  that,  to  his  great  regret, 
Mr.  Ledyard  found  himself  detained  in  that  city,  and 
would  be  unable  to  get  back  to  Dundaff  in  time  to  give 
himself  the  pleasure  of  dining  at  Fernwood  on  the  fol- 
lowing Saturday,  as  he  had  hoped  to  do. 

"  What  a  nuisance  !"  cried  Millard.  "  And  I  particu- 
larly wanted  Aunt  Sarah  to  meet  Ledyard !" 

"  It  is  too  bad !"  responded  Posey.  "  Such  a  pity, 
to  be  sure !" 

Yet,  so  far  from  sounding  despondent,  her  voice  was 
almost  joyous.  The  next  moment,  however,  her  tone 
changed. 

"  I  should  like  to  know  who  this  mysterious  man 
can  be,"  she  continued,  anxiously,  "  whom  Dr.  Danforth 
wishes  to  bring  with  him  ?" 

"  Why  mysterious  ?"  asked  Millard. 

"  It  is  so  strange  that  he  should  not  mention  his 
name,"  she  answered,  in  a  troubled  tone. 

"  It  is  odd,"  admitted  Henderson,  looking  again  at 
Danforth 's  note.  "  He  certainly  does  not  mention  the 
name.  It  must  be  an  oversight." 

"  It  sounds  intentional,"  said  Posey.  "  I  thought  so 
when  you  first  read  me  the  note."  Her  face  had  grad- 
ually assumed  the  half-frightened,  half-suspicious  ex- 
pression which  it  sometimes  wore  of  late,  as  though 
she  feared  some  hidden  danger  and  knew  not  where  it 
might  be  lurking  and  whence  it  might  spring  out  upon 
her.  Her  husband  noted  it  with  anxiety.  He  had  seen 
the  look  before,  and  dreaded  lest  it  might  indicate  the 
first  step  towards  insanity.  How  often  had  a  perma- 
nently unsettled  mind  been  the  consequence  of  a  sudden 
blow  on  the  head,  especially  if  combined  with  such  a 

19* 


222  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

severe  shock  to  the  whole  nervous  system  as  hers  had 
sustained ! 

He  was  most  solicitous,  however,  that  she  should  not 
read  his  thoughts,  and  turned  with  relief  to  Mrs.  Pelham, 
who,  accompanied  by  Wilfred,  entered  the  drawing-room 
at  this  moment,  where  they  were  awaiting  the  announce 
ment  of  dinner. 

"  What  do  you  think,  Aunt  Sarah  ?"  he  asked ;  "  does 
it  seem  to  you  that  the  name  of  Dr.  Danforth's  fuend 
has  been  intentionally  omitted  from  this  note  ?" 

"  Why,  certainly  not,"  returned  Mrs.  Pelham,  after 
reading  the  epistle,  which  he  extended  towards  her,  with 
the  help  of  her  gold  eye-glasses. 

"  Do  you  not  think  so  ?"  asked  Posey,  anxiously. 

"  Of  course  I  do  not.  What  would  have  been  the  object 
of  such  an  omission  ?  The  doctor  may  have  been  sum- 
moned to  see  a  patient  just  in  the  midst  of  his  composition 
and  forgotten  to  mention  the  name.  His  letter  seems,  by 
the  bye,  a  veiy  creditable  one  for  a  country  practitioner." 

"So  it  is,"  said  Millard,  reassured.  "It  is  a  capital 
note,  and  Danforth  is  a  capital  fellow.  I  am  not  afraid  to 
promise  a  welcome  to  any  friend  of  his."  Which  accord- 
ingly he  did,  going  to  his  study  to  write  the  answer  as 
soon  as  dinner  was  over.  This  was  immediately  de- 
spatched to  the  village  by  Malachi,  and  received  by  Dr. 
Danforth  the  same  evening. 

Meanwhile,  when  the  situation  had  been  fully  ex- 
plained to  Mrs.  Pelham,  she  continued  to  take  a  very 
cheerful  view  of  it. 

"  It  is  a  great  pity,  of  course,  about  Mr.  Ledyard,"  she 
said,  "  and  I  am  the  more  sorry,  after  all  Millard  has  told 
me  of  his  earnestness  and  zeal,  which  inspired  me  with 
a  sincere  desire  to  meet  him ;  but  this  is  only  a  pleasure 
deferred,  I  hope  ;  and  if  we  are  to  lose  the  young  rector, 
we  are  particularly  fortunate,  I  think,  in  having  his  place 
supplied  by  an  agreeable  stranger." 

"That  is  what  I  think,  too,"  rejoined  Posey,  with  a 
return  of  better  spirits  under  the  soothing  influence  of 
Mrs.  Pelham. 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  22$ 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

DR.  DANFORTH  was  in  his  consulting-room  when 
Lieutenant  Henderson's  note  was  handed  to  him.  He 
read  it,  and  passed  it  to  a  man  who  was  seated  at  the 
opposite  side  of  the  table  on  which  the  doctor  was  in  the 
habit  of  writing  his  prescriptions.  He  occupied  the  very- 
chair,  in  fact,  to  which  Danforth  consigned  his  anxious 
patients  while  he  diagnosed  their  cases,  holding  them 
quite  at  his  mercy  as  to  what  nauseous  drug  he  would 
prescribe  for  their  sins  of  imprudence  before  he  granted 
them  absolution. 

Had  he  had  such  a  design  in  this  instance  he  could 
not  have  placed  his  visitor  to  better  advantage  for  scruti- 
nizing inspection,  as  the  strong  light  from  a  student-lamp 
fell  full  on  his  face ;  but  he  must  have  been  somewhat  dis- 
couraged by  his  almost  ostentatious  appearance  of  trucu- 
lent health,  together  with  certain  decidedly  obstinate  lines 
about  the  corners  of  his  mouth.  Indeed,  as  he  sat  gazing 
abstractedly  at  the  red  glare  of  a  hard-coal  fire,  but  dimly 
discerned  through  an  isinglass  window  in  the  door  of  a 
sheet-iron  stove,  the  lower  part  of  his  face  looked  ruddy 
with  exercise  and  exposure  to  weather,  in  strong  con- 
trast to  the  parchment-like  skin  of  his  forehead  and  the 
shining  surface  of  his  bald  head,  on  which  the  light  of 
the  lamp  first  fell.  The  skin  was  so  dark  that  but  for  his 
black,  gleaming  eyes,  and  the  reddish  tinge  already  re- 
ferred to,  which  gave  to  his  cheeks,  chin,  and  nose  the 
color  of  fine  old  mahogany,  he  might  almost  have  been  a 
mummy.  He  had  neither  beard,  whiskers,  nor  moustache, 
which  lent  to  his  high  cheek-bones  and  aquiline  nose  the 
greater  prominence ;  but,  with  all  its  strangeness,  there 
was  enough  conformity  in  the  general  lines  of  the  face 
to  leave  it  a  rude  look  of  distinction,  while  the  combined 
expression  of  pride  and  indifference,  which  chilled  one  in 
the  eye,  was  contradicted  by  a  net-work  of  lines  about  the 


224  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

corners  of  the  large  mouth.  These  seemed  to  denote  an 
amiable  disposition,  with  a  rather  careless  way  of  looking 
at  life,  besides  the  fact  that  he  had  looked  at  it,  in  one 
way  or  another,  for  some  length  of  time,  and  without 
much  favor. 

Perhaps  no  more  complete  opposite  could  have  been 
imagined  to  the  bright  blue  eyes,  the  fair  hair  and  com- 
plexion, the  vivacity,  and  the  thin,  worn  face  of  George 
Danforth ;  so  that  had  there  been  any  question  as  to 
whether  one  of  the  two  men  needed  medical  aid,  the 
stranger  might  well  have  said  to  him,  "  Physician,  heal 
thyself,"  even  if  unaware  that  the  doctor  had  contracted  a 
disease  to  which  as  a  leech  he  was  powerless  to  minister. 

It  has  been  hinted,  however,  that  for  a  man  in  love 
Danforth  was  not  communicative,  and  his  guest  was  the 
reverse  of  penetrating,  although  an  acute  observer  of 
outward  effects.  Besides,  he  knew  of  nothing  and  no 
one  that  he  had  not  known  ten  years  before,  and  was 
ignorant  even  of  the  existence  of  Miss  Florence  Bet- 
terton.  Much  less  did  he  conceive  that  the  souvenir 
which  he  had  brought  his  old  comrade  had  been  so 
quickly  transferred  to  this  young  lady's  keeping. 

"  It  will  be  a  rather  odd  sensation  for  me  to  be  once 
more  at  a  dinner-party,"  he  said,  with  a  chuckling  laugh 
which  showed  a  row  of  shining  teeth  almost  too  white 
for  beauty.  It  was,  besides,  unmistakably  the  laugh  of 
a  deaf  man,  reminding  Danforth  of  this  infirmity  of  his 
friend.  "  After  my  experience  in  the  far  West,  I  am  not 
by  any  means  sure  that  I  shall  remember  how  to  con- 
duct myself  on  so  critical  an  occasion,"  he  continued. 
"You  will  hardly  believe  it,  Danforth,  but  I  really  have 
difficulty  at  times  in  understanding  English." 

"  And  pray  what  do  you  understand  ?" 

"  I  can  talk  very  good  Dakota,  as  good  as  any  Sioux." 

"Was  it  among  the  Sioux  Indians  that  you  passed 
most  of  your  time  ?" 

"  All  of  the  time.  I  was  among  them  for  eight  years, 
which  ought  to  give  some  familiarity  with  their  mode 
of  speech." 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  22$ 

"  And  all  those  years  did  you  hear  no  English  ?" 

"  How  should  I  ?  Was  I  not  guarded  with  the  most 
vigilant  care,  made  a  member  of  the  household  of  the 
great  chief  Crazy  Horse  ?  He  was  so  jealous,  in  fact, 
of  my  being  recaptured,  that,  when  he  decided  to  sur- 
render himself  and  his  people  to  General  Crook,  he  sent 
me  into  Canada  with  a  strong  detachment  of  warriors, 
whom  it  is  said  he  was  plotting  to  rejoin  at  the  time  of 
the  attempted  escape  which  caused  his  death.  This  I 
learned  after  my  liberation." 

"  I  should  not  have  supposed  that  so  fierce  a  tribe  as 
the  Sioux  Indians  would  preserve  the  life  of  a  captive." 

"  You  are  right  in  supposing  that  they  would  not 
generally.  I  should  have  been  scalped  and  cut  limb 
from  limb,  like  all  my  poor  companions,  but  for  the  sin- 
gular chance  that,  owing  to  the  darkness  of  my  skin, 
they  mistook  me  for  one  of  their  own  tribe  who  had 
been  stolen  away  in  childhood.  It  so  happened  that  at 
the  time  the  stage-coach  was  attacked  I  had  from  pure 
love  of  experiment  taken  my  place  on  the  back  of  one 
of  the  horses  in  true  Mexican  fashion,  and  was  playing 
mail-rider,  having  rigged  up  a  dress  which  was  at  least 
as  picturesque  as  the  character  I  was  representing. 
One  of  the  warriors  had  lost  the  boy  whom  they  fancied 
I  resembled,  and  on  account  of  my  shortness  of  stature 
they  took  me  for  a  much  younger  man  than  I  was. 
Accordingly,  they  led  me  to  their  chief,  who  decreed  that 
I  was  to  be  kept  a  prisoner  until  I  should  recover  what 
they  believed  to  be  my  native  tongue,  so  that  I  might 
tell  my  story.  You  can  imagine  that,  having  gathered 
these  facts,  I  was  slow  to  acknowledge  such  progress  as 
I  made  in  speaking  their  language,  fearing  to  be  in  a 
position  to  prove  that  I  was  not  the  man  they  thought 
me." 

"  What  a  terrible  position  to  be  placed  in !"  ejac- 
ulated Danforth.  "To  face  death  on  the  battle-field 
would  be  nothing,  compared  to  thus  feeling  your  life 
at  stake  at  any  moment  that  your  identity  might  be 
betrayed !" 


226  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

"  Yes,  it  wasn't  pleasant,  but  there  was  a  sense  of 
novelty  and  excitement  which  kept  me  up  for  the  first 
two  years  at  least.  I  could  communicate  with  them 
quite  freely  by  signs,  and  I  got  to  be  almost  at  home 
with  them  at  last.  Many  were  the  speeches  that  I  heard 
from  the  great  Sitting  Bull,  the  medicine-man,  who  had 
such  a  wonderful  flow  of  words  that,  with  his  ringing 
voice  and  haughty  mien,  it  got  him  the  reputation  of 
valor,  as  I  afterwards  learned,  which  fairly  belonged 
to  Crazy  Horse,  the  warrior  chief.  The  latter  was  silent, 
sad,  almost  morose  at  times,  but  yet  most  interesting  in 
his  sombre  consistency  of  character." 

"  There  must  have  been  a  great  deal  that  was  attrac- 
tive to  a  man  of  observation  like  you  in  studying  such 
an  entirely  new  phase  of  life,"  said  Dr.  Danforth. 

"  To  be  sure,"  responded  Neil ;  "  and  the  scenery,  even 
during  my  lonely  tramp  through  the  National  Park  after 
my  escape  from  captivity,  was  an  intense  pleasure,  and 
one  never  to  be  forgotten ;  yet  I  was  glad  enough  when 
I  reached  a  place  of  shelter." 

"Your  memories  are  not  all  agreeable,  I  imagine," 
said  Danforth,  musingly. 

"  No ;  the  wild  life  suited  me  well  enough,  but  I  am 
sorry  to  say  that  I  was  obliged  to  witness  certain  new  and 
rather  unattractive  forms  of  death.  The  Custer  mas- 
sacre, for  instance,  was  not  a  pleasant  spectacle.  Mais 
revenons  a  nos  moutons.  What  was  it  you  were  telling 
me  of  an  accident  to  Millard  Henderson's  wife  ?" 

"  Simply  that  she  was  thrown  out  of  her  carriage  a 
month  ago  and  nearly  killed.  You  do  not  seem  to  have 
forgotten  your  French,  by  the  bye,  with  your  English  ?" 

"  Not  entirely.  I  chanced  to  have  a  French  novel  in 
my  pocket  for  odd  reading  at  the  time  that  our  wagon- 
train  was  surrounded  by  the  Indians.  But  I  am  dis- 
tressed at  what  you  tell  me  about  Mrs.  Henderson." 

"  Oh,  she  is  all  right  now,  or  nearly  so.  When  I 
last  saw  her  she  looked  almost  like  her  old  self." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that.  I  remember  her  as  a  girl,  and 
should  be  sorry  to  think  of  anything  happening  to  mar 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  22/ 

her  health  or  her  beauty.  She  must  be  a  remarkably 
fine-looking  woman." 

"A  pretty  little  thing,  certainly,"  replied  Danforth, 
"  and  behaved  with  more  pluck  than  I  should  have  ex- 
pected." 

"  Little !"  ejaculated  Granby  Neil,  for  Danforth's  vis- 
itor was  none  other  than  this  long-absent  artist,  as  the 
intelligent  reader  will  no  doubt  have  guessed.  "  Well, 
as  I  remember  her  before  her  marriage,  she  certainly 
was  not  little ;  but  some  men  have  a  way  of  calling 
every  woman  they  admire  'a  pretty  little  thing/  especially 
a  married  woman.  They  seem  to  think  that  it  gives  a 
harmless  and  innocent  flavor  to  season  their  admiration 
in  this  way,  particularly  where  they  are  nominally  friends 
of  the  husband." 

"  Was  there  ever  such  nonsense  !"  exclaimed  Danforth, 
with  amusement.  "  In  the  first  place,  Mrs.  Henderson 
is  not  a  great  favorite  of  mine,  in  spite  of  my  having 
found  her  a  rather  interesting  case.  In  the  second 
place,  I  am  not  nominally,  but  actually,  a  very  warm 
friend  of  Millard  Henderson,  who,  to  my  thinking,  is 
worth  a  dozen  of  his  wife.  It  is  evident  you  have  had 
your  morals  badly  perverted  by  reading  that  one  French 
novel." 

"  To  be  sure  I  have,"  said  Neil,  cheerfully.  "  I  should 
be  ashamed  of  myself  if  I  had  not  got  all  the  bad  and 
all  the  good  out  of  it.  Why,  I  have  not  seen  another 
book  for  ten  years  !  However,  we  will  not  quarrel  about 
Mrs.  Henderson,  whom  I  always  was  inclined  to  admire 
extravagantly.  So  far  from  thinking  her  little,  she  seemed 
to  me  mentally  and  physically  on  a  grander  scale  than 
most  women ;  but  it  is  Henderson  himself  that  I  am 
most  anxious  to  see  again.  It  will  be  great  fun  to  sur- 
prise the  old  man.  I  do  not  think  from  his  note  that 
he  suspects  at  all  your  friend's  being  any  one  whom  he 
has  ever  seen  before.  Do  you  ?" 

"  No,  certainly  not.  He  is  bound  to  be  surprised," 
said  Danforth,  reverting  to  one  of  the  expressions  of  his 
boyhood  in  the  Southwest. 


228  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

Meanwhile,  on  the  hill  above  the  main  street  of  Dun- 
daff,  in  which  Dr.  Danforth  lived  and  displayed  his  pro- 
fessional sign,  a  great  consultation  had  been  going  for- 
ward for  the  last  three  days  at  Miss  Arkwright's  little 
cottage  on  the  subject  of  the  gown  which  Cynthia  was 
to  wear  to  the  dinner-party. 

"  The  truth  is,  Nathalie,  that  I  have  nothing,  of  course, 
which  is  made  in  the  present  fashion,"  said  Cynthia,  de- 
spondently. "  Indeed,  if  it  were  not  that  I  want  you  to 
see  the  old  house,  and  you  would  not  like  to  go  alone, 
I  think  I  should  back  out  of  the  whole  thing." 

"  And  what  would  Mrs.  Pelham  say  ?"  asked  Nathalie, 
reproachfully;  "and  little  Wilfred  or  Mrs.  Henderson, 
for  that  matter,  who  wrote  you  such  a  touching  note 
about  your  great  kindness  to  her  when  she  was  ill  at 
your  house?  Besides,  your  dress  will  be  beautiful." 

"  I  should  not  like  to  disappoint  Mrs.  Pelham,  cer- 
tainly," admitted  Cynthia. 

"  I  should  think  not,  when  she  cares  more  for  you  than 
for  all  the  rest  of  us  put  together !"  exclaimed  Nathalie, 
with  spirit. 

"  Nonsense !"  returned  her  sister,  with  a  smile,  how- 
ever, which  betrayed  the  pleasant  consciousness  that, 
long  as  it  was  since  she  had  lent  her  countenance  to  any- 
thing so  frivolous  as  a  dinner-party,  she  could  not  absent 
herself  from  this  one  without  being  missed  and  regretted 
by  more  than  one  of  the  persons  present. 

Nathalie  had  persuaded  her  to  have  brought  out  all 
the  old  silks  and  velvets  which  contributed  to  her  fash- 
ionable toilets  of  ten  years  ago,  and  which,  but  for  the 
venerating  devotion  of  old  Marjory,  first  to  her  mistress 
and  second  to  all  relics  of  the  past,  would  long  ago 
have  become  the  prey  of  those  corrupting  influences  of 
moth  and  rust  to  which  the  treasures  of  this  earth  are 
subject. 

Nathalie,  who  was  profoundly  ignorant  of  the  inimical 
attitude  which  Marjory  mentally  assumed  towards  her, 
had  been  unconsciously  conquering  the  old  woman's 
prejudice,  but  nothing  could  have  gone  further  towards 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  229 

reconciling  her  to  Nathalie's  presence  in  the  household 
than  the  eagerness  which  she  showed  as  to  the  matter  of 
Cynthia's  dress  for  the  dinner-party,  while  the  respect 
with  which  the  girl  looked  on  the  rich  stuffs — the  bro- 
cades, the  satins,  the  cloths — which  had  so  long  been  her 
charge  went  far  towards  sweetening  the  embittered  feel- 
ings of  the  old  servant  towards  the  intruder. 

Indeed,  the  hearty  good  will  with  which  Nathalie  set 
to  work  to  revive  Cynthia's  wardrobe,  using  all  the  most 
recent  knowledge  of  modes  and  shapes  which  her  late 
visit  to  Paris  placed  at  her  command  in  order  to  prepare 
a  costume  which  should  be  worthy  of  her  sister's  visit 
to  Fernwood,  could  not  but  recommend  itself  to  any 
spectator.  It  touched  Cynthia  very  much,  and  when 
on  the  evening  before  that  of  the  dinner  she  stood  in 
front  of  an  old-fashioned  mirror  for  final  inspection,  few 
persons  who  had  been  in  the  habit  of  seeing  her  in  the 
simple  and  rather  severe  style  of  dress  which  she  had 
adopted  for  convenience  since  her  return  from  the 
convent  but  would  have  been  startled  at  the  transfor- 
mation could  they  have  witnessed  it,  while  even  Cyn- 
thia was  brought  to  see  and  confess  that  Nathalie's 
efforts  were  fairly  successful.  Nathalie  herself  was  mod- 
estly triumphant,  not  so  much  at  her  own  achieve- 
ment as  at  the  inspiration  which  had  filled  her  intui- 
tively with  the  certainty  that  some  of  the  stately  garments 
in  which  she  remembered  Cynthia  as  a  child  must  still 
be  available. 

Her  choice  had  fallen  on  a  rich  brocade  petticoat  of 
green  and  silver-gray,  over  which  fell  a  train  of  dark  satin 
sweeping  on  the  floor  behind  Cynthia  in  luminous  green 
folds,  while  a  dark-green  velvet  bodice,  which  still  proved 
to  fit  the  graceful  lines  of  her  figure  faultlessly,  had  been 
adapted  to  the  fashion  of  the  day  by  cutting  short  the 
sleeves  at  the  elbow  and  trimming  them  with  fine  old 
lace,  which  drooped  over  her  shapely  arms.  The  neck 
of  the  dress  had  also  been  cut  square,  and  some  of  the 
same  lace  so  disposed  as  to  enhance  by  partly  concealing 
the  pretty  curves  of  the  throat  and  bosom.  It  was  finally 


230  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

fastened,  by  Nathalie's  own  hands,  in  front  of  the  bodice 
with  a  beautiful  diamond  pin  that  had  belonged  to  Cyn- 
thia's mother,  and  was  the  only  bit  of  jewelry  she  would 
consent  to  wear. 

She  was  obstinate,  too,  in  rejecting  all  decoration  of 
the  hair,  insisting  on  retaining  her  ordinary  style  of 
parting  it  in  a  straight,  thread-like  line  through  the 
middle,  brushing  it  down  in  all  its  glossy  smoothness, 
and  combing  it  back  from  each  side  of  the  temples, 
where,  in  spite  of  the  comb,  it  would  pause  to  wave 
before  it  was  drawn  sedately  together  and  all  its  luxuri- 
ant abundance  disposed  of  in  a  simple  knot  at  the  back 
of  the  head.  But  perhaps  no  other  way  of  dressing  it 
would  have  shown  her  fine,  thoughtful  forehead,  her 
pencilled  eyebrows,  and  the  classic  curve  of  her  head 
and  neck  to  so  much  advantage. 

Some  idea  of  this  sort  was  probably  passing  through 
Nathalie's  mind  as  she  put  the  final  touches  to  her 
sister's  toilet,  for  she  said,  impulsively, — 

"  How  fortunate  it  was,  Cynthia,  that  they  left  you 
your  hair  when  you  went  to  be  a  nun  !  I  thought  they 
always  shaved  the  heads  of  novices." 

"  So  they  do,"  replied  Cynthia,  "  before  they  take  full 
orders."  She  colored  faintly  through  her  dark  skin. 

"  And  did  you — did  they  do  that  to  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  they  cut  mine  off,  too.  You  know  I  took  the 
black  veil." 

"  I  did  not  know,"  replied  Nathalie,  with  some  awe, 
while  Marjory,  who  had  been  summoned  to  approve 
the  result  of  Nathalie's  labors,  shook  her  head  myste- 
riously by  way  of  indicating  superior  knowledge  of 
many  things  beyond  the  sphere  of  Nathalie's  youthful 
inexperience. 

"  It  was  probably  the  best  thing  which  could  have 
been  done  to  my  hair,"  said  Cynthia,  taking  pity  on  her 
sister's  suppressed  curiosity,  "  although  I  little  guessed 
at  the  time  that  I  should  ever  let  it  grow  again.  I  think 

should  have  been  likely  to  lose  it  during  the  fever 
if  it  had  not  been  cut,  whereas  it  all  grew  out  after 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  23! 

my  long  illness.  I  recollect  that  it  curled  about  my 
head  at  first  as  if  I  had  been  a  child.  Do  you  remem- 
ber, Marjory?"  she  asked,  turning  to  the  old  servant. 

"Do  Hi  remember?  Well,  Hi  should  think  Hi  did! 
Why,  you  'aven't  quite  lost  the  curl  hout  of  hit  yet,  hand 
w'en  you  was  younger  hit  was  straight  as  a  poker !" 
returned  Marjory,  determined  that  her  powers  of  recol- 
lection should  not  lightly  be  confined  to  so  recent  an 
event  as  the  illness  which  occurred  when  Nathalie  was 
nine  years  old. 

They  were  seated  at  breakfast  the  next  morning,  when 
Marjory  brought  in  a  note  addressed  to  Cynthia.  It 
was  postmarked  New  York. 

"  How  did  this  come  ?"  she  asked,  wonderingly,  for 
the  letter-carrier  had  not  appeared  in  these  primitive 
days  at  Dundaff,  and  letters  were  only  delivered  when 
called  for  at  the  office. 

"  Hit  was  Mr.  Ledyard's  'ousekeeper  that  brought 
hit,  marm,  hand  she  says  as  'ow  she  'opes  hit  don't  con- 
tain no  bad  news." 

"  I  hope  not,  indeed,"  said  Cynthia. 

"  I  told  'er  not  to  worrit,  but  she's  hanxious  because 
she  hain't  'ad  no  letter  for  two  days,  hand  Mr.  Ledyard 
'e  said  for  certain  as  'ow  'e'd  be  back  this  morning." 

Cynthia  broke  the  seal  and  hastily  glanced  down  the 
page.  "  Tell  her  that  Mr.  Ledyard  is  well  and  hopes 
to  be  back  to-morrow,"  she  said  to  Marjory,  who,  being 
dismissed,  retired  for  a  rare  social  enjoyment  in  the  way 
of  a  morning  chat  with  Mrs.  Fowler. 

"  What  does  Mr.  Ledyard  say  ?  Will  he  not  be  at 
the  dinner,  after  all  ?"  asked  Nathalie,  her  disappointment 
showing  through  an  attempted  air  of  unconcern. 

"  I  will  read  you  the  letter,"  replied  Cynthia.  It  ran 
as  follows : 

"  MY  DEAR  Miss  ARKWRIGHT, — You  have  been  so 
kind  in  your  efforts  to  interest  people  about  the  Open- 
Air  Service  and  lecture  for  Sunday  afternoon,  that  I 
write  to  tell  you  not  to  be  anxious  if  I  should  not  appear 


232  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

on  Sunday  morning.  Should  I  by  any  chance  be  so 
long  detained  here  as  to  miss  the  morning  service  at 
St.  Andrew's,  I  shall  get  a  friend  of  mine,  a  very  good 
fellow,  to  run  down  to  Dundaff  and  preach  for  me;  but 
if  I  do  not  come  in  the  morning  train,  I  shall  certainly 
arrive  at  three  o'clock,  in  time  for  the  service  in  the  woods. 
"  Hoping,  therefore,  to  see  you  soon,  and  with  kindest 
regards  to  Miss  Nathalie, 

"  Yours  very  sincerely, 

"  RICHARD  LEDYARD." 

"  Then  he  will  not  be  at  Fernwood,  of  course !"  ex- 
claimed Nathalie.  "  What  in  the  world  can  have  hap- 
pened to  detain  him  in  New  York  ?" 

"  It  is  impossible  to  imagine,"  replied  her  sister,  "  with- 
out knowing  more  of  his  errand." 

"But  he  told  you,  just  as  he  told  me,  that  he  was 
merely  going  to  try  to  find  a  man  whom  he  had  once 
known,  and  have  some  sort  of  explanation  with  him 
which  would  prevent  him  from  making  mischief,  or  the 
like.  Surely  it  would  not  take  all  these  days  to  do 
that." 

"  He  may  have  had  difficulty  in  finding  the  man,  or 
difficulty  in  persuading  him  not  to  make  mischief," 
reasoned  Cynthia. 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 

THE  sun  shone  on  the  Saturday  clear  and  bright, 
while  all  seemed  to  promise  fair  for  the  Fernwood  dinner- 
party. Nevertheless,  Mrs.  Pelham's  mind  was  filled  with 
a  vague  sense  of  uneasiness  almost  amounting  to  a  pre- 
sentiment of  evil.  She  was  dressed  early,  and  after  a 
last  look  at  the  pretty  dinner-table,  about  which  Posey 
had  shown  her  usual  taste  in  the  dainty  arrangement 
of  flowers  and  fruit,  she  entered  the  drawing-room,  where 
she  was  pleased  to  see  Mrs.  Henderson  very  becomingly 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  233 

arrayed  in  a  striking  combination  of  red  and  gold,  a 
contrast  of  which  she  was  fond. 

She  was  glad,  too,  to  see  her  gayly  dressed,  as  her 
own  heavy  black  gown,  only  relieved  by  the  transparent 
whiteness  of  her  widow's  cap,  seemed  hardly  in  keeping 
with  the  festive  nature  of  the  occasion,  but  most  of  all 
she  was  glad  of  a  brighter  and  more  interested  expres- 
sion on  Posey's  face  than  she  had  seen  there  since  her 
return  to  FeYnwood. 

"  Don't  you  think  the  house  looks  very  nice,  Aunt 
Pelham  ?"  she  asked,  cheerfully ;  and  Mrs.  Pelham  had 
just  time  to  assure  her  that  she  did,  when  they  heard 
the  sound  of  wheels,  and  were  joined  by  Millard  and 
Wilfred  in  a  high  state  of  expectation. 

The  first  guests  to  arrive,  as  chance  would  have  it, 
were  Cynthia  and  Nathalie  Arkwright.  Cynthia  came 
first,  and  it  must  be  acknowledged  that  her  appearance 
did  credit  to  the  time  and  exertion  which  her  sister  had 
expended  upon  it.  She  looked  eveiy  inch  a  queen  as 
she  advanced,  followed  by  Nathalie  in  a  pretty  girlish- 
looking  gown  of  pink  and  white  muslin ;  while  no  sooner 
did  the  two  sisters  enter  the  room  than  Mrs.  Henderson 
hastened  forward,  extending  both  little  hands  with  great 
cordiality  to  Cynthia,  who  took  them  in  her  larger,  more 
beautifully  shaped  ones  and  looked  down  kindly  at  her 
hostess. 

"  Let  me  welcome  you  to  Fernwood,  my  dear  Miss 
Arkwright,"  Posey  said,  and  then  turned  to  Nathalie 
and  began  expressing  pleasure,  which  was  evidently  less 
strained,  at  meeting  her,  mixed  with  polite  regret  at 
having  failed  to  find  them  in  the  cottage  a  day  or  two 
before. 

It  was  Mrs.  Pelham's  turn  next  to  congratulate  her- 
self on  seeing  her  dear  Cynthia  once  more  at  Fernwood  ; 
and  last  of  all  came  Millard. 

He  had  been  both  pleased  at  his  wife's  greeting  to 
Miss  Arkwright  and  touched  by  the  gracious  dignity 
with  which  it  was  received,  but  somehow  the  sight  of 
Cynthia  so  arrayed  as  to  display  her  stately  beauty  to 


234  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

its  full  advantage  seemed  to  carry  him  back  to  such 
vivid  remembrance  of  past  years  that  the  room  began 
whirling  round  with  his  effort  to  concentrate  his  atten 
tion  on  the  present  moment,  and  he  could  hardly  trust 
his  voice  to  speak  to  her,  lest  he  should  betray  the  sense 
of  unreality  in  all  about  him  which  had  suddenly  taken 
possession  of  his  usually  steady  brain. 

By  the  time,  however,  that  his  aunt  turned  from  the 
older  to  the  younger  Miss  Arkwright  he  had  regained 
his  self-command  and  outward  serenity,  and  was  exhibi- 
ting to  Cynthia  a  portrait  of  his  uncle,  Mr.  Pelham, 
which  Mrs.  Pelham  had  had  painted  in  Italy  and  had 
just  brought  home  with  her. 

While  they  were  thus  engaged,  the  Betterton  carriage 
drove  up,  and  a  moment  or  two  later  Florence  Betterton 
and  Mr.  Thomas  were  shown  in,  and  had  made  their 
way  to  where  Mrs.  Henderson  was  standing,  near  one 
of  the  drawing-room  windows,  after  greeting  whom,  and 
answering  all  inquiries  satisfactorily  regarding  the  prog- 
ress of  her  father's  recovery,  Miss  Betterton  sought 
Mrs.  Pelham.  This  was  not  merely  with  a  view  of 
making  polite  speeches  to  the  lady  for  whom  the  din- 
ner was  given.  She  was  intent  on  telling  Mrs.  Pelham 
how  she  remembered  various  kindnesses  which  she  had 
bestowed  on  her  as  a  little  girl,  and  had,  it  seemed, 
entirely  forgotten  ;  but,  for  all  that,  Mrs.  Pelham  was 
pleased  at  her  long-lived  gratitude  and  favorably  im- 
pressed by  her  sincerity  of  manner.  She  decided  that 
Florence  was  of  a  very  different  nature  from  her  mother. 

Mr.  Tom  Betterton,  meanwhile,  was  talking  any  amount 
of  slang  and  nonsense  to  Mrs.  Henderson,  when  his  eye 
fell  on  pretty  Nathalie,  and  he  hastened  to  her  side. 

Hearing  again  a  sound  of  wheels,  Mrs.  Henderson 
drew  curiously  aside  the  curtain  of  the  window  near 
which  she  was  standing,  from  which,  as  it  was  a  clear 
moonlight  night,  she  could  distinguish  Dr.  Danforth's 
professional  chaise  approaching,  and  in  it  two  persons, 
seen  at  first  indefinitely,  but  becoming  more  and  more 
distinct  as  the  carriage  drew  near,  when  something  in 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  2$$ 

the  aspect  of  the  man  who  was  seated  beside  Dr.  Dan- 
forth  struck  her  with  a  dread  sense  of  familiarity,  and 
so  held  her  attention  that  it  gradually  became  riveted  on 
his  figure. 

His  face  was  turned  away,  until  just  as  the  chaise 
passed  the  window  he  looked  suddenly  towards  the 
house,  while  every  line  and  feature  stood  clearly  out  in 
the  light  of  the  early  moon  that  fell  full  on  face  and 
figure. 

She  reeled,  and  would  have  fallen  had  she  not  caught 
hold  of  one  of  the  thick  cords  which  drew  back  the 
heavy  window-curtain,  leaning  under  the  shadow  of  the 
drapery,  where  she  was  fortunate  enough  to  avoid  notice 
for  a  moment,  while  she  rallied  all  her  faculties  to  her  aid. 

In  this,  to  her,  supreme  moment  of  awful  helpless- 
ness and  absolute  terror,  in  which  she  hung  as  it  were 
suspended  between  belief  in  a  supernatural  visitation 
and  the  paralyzing  conviction  of  an  actual  presence  in 
the  flesh,  more  fearful  than  the  worst  phantom  which 
her  excited  fancy  could  have  conjured  up  to  drive  her 
to  despair  or  desperation, — in  this  all-deciding  moment, 
by  some  strange  chance,  the  thought  of  Cynthia  Ark- 
wright  came  to  her  as  her  only  possible  salvation  from 
immediate  discovery,  followed  by  shameful  detection. 

If  she  could  but  get  Cynthia  to  help  her,  she  told 
herself,  she  might  yet  be  extricated  from  the  scene  di- 
rectly before  her,  be  relieved  from  instant  and  open 
disgrace,  from  seeing  her  husband's  expression  of  in- 
credulous amazement,  from  watching  it  turn  to  bitter 
contempt !  At  the  bare  suggestion  of  such  deliverance 
a  faint  pulse  stirred  within  her  of  returning  hope.  It 
gave  her  strength  to  quit  her  place  of  shelter  and  hasten 
across  the  room  as  far  as  where  Millard  and  Cynthia 
were  still  standing  together  in  front  of  Mr.  Pelham's 
portrait. 

The  picture  had  been  hung  over  the  mantel-shelf  just 
opposite  the  door  of  entrance,  to  which  the  backs  of 
both  Lieutenant  Henderson  and  Miss  Arkwright  were 
naturally  turned. 


236  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

"  Millard,"  said  Posey,  placing  herself  behind  them, 
and  also  turning  her  back  to  the  door,  with  the  apparent 
excuse  of  joining  in  their  inspection  of  the  painting, — 
"  Millard,  I  hear  another  carriage,  and  fancy  Dr.  Dan- 
forth  and  his  guest  are  coming.  Had  you  not  better  go 
out  and  welcome  the  stranger  ?" 

If  his  mind  had  not  been  pleasurably  occupied  with 
other  matters,  probably  her  husband  would  have  noticed 
how  strained  and  hard  her  voice  had  become.  As  it 
was,  he  only  caught  the  sense  of  her  words,  which  seemed 
to  him  both  natural  and  to  the  point. 

"  To  be  sure :  I  should  not  forget  my  duties  as  host," 
he  responded,  gayly.  "  If  Miss  Arkwright  will  excuse 
me,  I  will  go  at  once."  He  bowed  as  he  spoke,  with  a 
glance  of  appeal  to  Cynthia,  and,  without  waiting  for 
any  other  answer  than  her  amused  permission,  hastened 
away. 

The  instant  he  was  gone  she  felt  a  cold  hand  on  her 
arm,  and  became  suddenly  conscious  of  the  blanched 
face  of  Mrs.  Henderson  upturned  to  hers  with  a  look 
of  supplication. 

"  Miss  Arkwright,  will  you  come  with  me,  please  ?" 
she  whispered  between  her  white  lips. 

"  Of  course  I  will ;  but  where  ?" 

"Out  of  this  room.  No,  not  that  way ;  we  should  meet 
them.  Come  back  through  the  dining-room, — quick  ! 
There  is  just  time  !" 

Cynthia  thought  that  Posey  had  been  suddenly  taken 
ill,  and  naturally  wished  to  slip  away  from  her  guests  with- 
out attracting  attention.  Hastily  placing  her  arm  through 
hers,  she  guided  her  between  the  silken  curtains  which 
divided  the  drawing-room  from  the  dining-room,  and 
perceived  that  as  they  closed  behind  them  her  compan- 
ion experienced  a  sense  of  relief.  She  immediately  pro- 
posed to  her  to  sit  down  and  have  something  brought 
to  revive  her  strength,  but  to  all  such  suggestion  she 
shook  her  head.  "  Do  not  call  any  one,"  she  said.  "  I 
want  nothing  but  to  get  quietly  away  to  my  own 
room." 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  237 

Accordingly,  they  hastened  towards  the  door  leading 
from  the  dining-room  to  the  entry,  as  this  was  the  only 
way  of  getting  up-stairs ;  but  when  they  reached  the  door 
and  had  opened  it,  Mrs.  Henderson  paused  and  shivered, 
clinging  more  closely  to  Cynthia,  with  an  expression  of 
nervous  horror,  as  the  sound  of  loud  voices  reached 
them  from  farther  down  the  hall,  between  the  drawing- 
room  and  the  front  door. 

"  Why,  Neil !  Granby  Neil  ?  My  dear  friend  Neil ! 
Can  it  be  you  ?  What  does  it  mean  ?  Granby  Neil 
living  ?  For  Heaven's  sake,  Danforth,  where  did  he 
come  from  ?" 

This  much  they  heard  in  Millard's  voice,  and  then 
came  other  tones  :  the  loudest  ones  were  Dr.  Danforth's, 
who  seemed  to  be  offering  some  explanation. 

"  But  how  came  you  not  to  tell  me  it  was  he  ?"  pro- 
ceeded Henderson.  "  My  wife  said  she  thought  you  left 
the  name  out  of  the  note  on  purpose.  Did  you,  though  ? 
Was  it  all  done  to  surprise  me  ?" 

"  Ah,  that  was  all  my  fault,  Millard.  Danforth  was 
not  at  all  in  love  with  the  plan,  but  he  would  not  consent 
to  go  without  me,  although  I  said  that  when  a  man  was 
supposed  to  be  dead  he  had  no  right  to  expect  to  be 
asked  to  dinner." 

This  was  said  in  a  much  louder  voice,  with  the  pe- 
culiar chuckling  laugh  belonging  to  the  stranger.  It 
was  a  voice  lacking  modulation,  as  is  often  the  case 
with  the  speech  of  a  deaf  man,  and  Cynthia  remembered 
it  well  as  characteristic  of  Millard's  old  friend, — long 
believed  to  be  dead, — the  eccentric  artist,  Granby  Neil. 
Then  the  voices  passed  into  the  drawing-room,  where  it 
was  evident  that  there  was  a  cordial  greeting  going  on 
between  Neil  and  Mrs.  Pelham. 

"  Now,"  whispered  Posey,  imperiously,  "  help  me  up- 
stairs, please,  as  quick  as  possible.  There  is  not  a 
moment  to  lose." 

Cynthia  put  one  arm  round  the  slender  little  woman, 
and,  half  dragging  and  half  supporting  her  through  the 
entry  to  the  wide  stairway,  soon  gained  the  top  of  the 


238  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

stairs  and  assisted  her  to  a  couch  in  a  small  morning- 
room,  which  opened  out  of  her  bedroom. 

"  Send  away  Teresa,"  whispered  Posey,  as  her  maid 
came  anxiously  forward  with  a  look  of  great  concern ; 
"  tell  her  to  go  down  and  say  to  Millard  that  I  felt  a 
little  faint,  but  that  you  are  with  me,  and  I  shall  soon  be 
better.  Say  I  hope  to  be  able  to  come  down  again  in  a 
few  minutes." 

Cynthia  gave  the  message  to  the  maid  as  Mrs.  Hen- 
derson desired,  while  Posey  turned  to  Teresa  herself  and 
added  a  word  of  warning  to  her  husband  not  to  leave  his 
guests,  and  to  the  waiter  not  to  let  dinner  be  served  quite 
yet;  reiterating,  with  a  ghastly  smile,  that  she  would 
"  soon  be  better,"  although  she  really  seemed  unable  to 
speak  above  a  whisper. 

"  And  now,"  said  Cynthia,  "  you  must  let  me  loosen 
the  waist  of  your  dress  and  give  you  something  to 
take." 

To  this  she  consented,  but  with  evident  impatience. 

"  Be  quick,  then,"  she  said.  "  There  is  ammonia  in 
that  bottle  on  the  stand.  A  few  drops  in  some  water  will 
make  me  all  right.  I  am  not  ill  in  body,  only  distracted 
with  anxiety." 

"  Why,  what  has  happened  to  distress  you  ?" 

"  Will  you  promise  not  to  betray  me  if  I  tell  you  ?" 

"  Betray  you  to  whom  ?" 

'•  To  any  one, — to  my  husband  or  Aunt  Pelham." 

Cynthia  looked  very  much  troubled.  "  I  will  certainly 
not  do  or  say  anything  without  letting  you  know  of  it 
beforehand,"  she  said,  "  if  you  wish  to  trust  me,  but  I 
cannot  promise  anything  without  knowing  what  I  am 
promising  about." 

"  Well,  then,"  replied  Posey,  sadly,  "  I  can  only  trust 
you  in  part.  This  much  I  will  say.  That  man  who  has 
just  come  with  Dr.  Danforth  knows  something  about 
me  which  my  husband  does  not  know." 

"  You  mean  Mr.  Granby  Neil  ?" 

"  I  do.  Now,  if  he  finds  out  who  I  am,  I  think  he  ib 
sure  to  tell  my  husband  this  thing ;  but  it  has  occurred  to 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  239 

me  that  there  is  just  a  chance  of  his  never  having  heard 
who  Millard's  wife  was,  as  I  do  not  think  that  Dr.  Dan- 
forth  knows  my  maiden  name,  and  it  was  after — after  he 
went  away  and  we  all  supposed  him  dead — that — that  we 
were  married." 

"  I  understand.  Then  you  do  not,  of  course,  intend 
to  really  go  down-stairs  again  ?" 

"  Certainly  not.  I  sent  that  message  to  prevent  Millard 
from  coming  up,  but  we  must  be  quick  or  he  may  yet  do 
so.  It  is  of  the  utmost  importance  to  me  to  ascertain 
whether — whether  Mr.  Neil  knows  who  I  am  or  not ;  and 
if,  as  I  hope,  he  may  be  ignorant,  that  he  should  remain 
so,  if  only  for  this  one  evening.  Will  you  not  go  down 
and  try  to  find  out  what  he  knows  ?  Will  you  try  to 
manage  so  that  he  may  not  be  told  ?" 

"  I  will  do  my  best." 

"  First  you  must  go  to  my  husband  and  tell  him  that 
I  am  better,  but  not  able  to  appear.  Millard  will,  of 
course,  make  my  excuses,  and  Aunt  Pelham  will  take 
my  place  at  the  head  of  the  table.  Then  if  you  could 
only  arrange  so  that  Mr.  Neil  should  take  you  in  to  din- 
ner, you  could  mount  guard  over  him  and  all  might  yet 
be  well.  Do  you  think  you  could  do  this  ?" 

"  I  am  not  much  accustomed  to  manoeuvring,  and  am 
not  sure  about  getting  Mr.  Neil  to  take  me  in  to  dinner, 
but  I  can  do  the  rest." 

"  Well,  do  what  you  can  ;  and  when  the  ladies  leave  the 
dinner-table  you  can  slip  up  here  on  pretence  of  seeing 
how  I  am,  and  tell  me  the  result." 

"  I  will  do  all  this  for  you  gladly,"  replied  Miss  Ark- 
wright.  "  But  suppose  that  we  should  succeed  in  staving 
off  this  discovery  for  one  evening,  what  then  ?" 

"  It  will  give  me  time." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  will  tell  your  husband  your- 
self?" 

"  Why  do  you  ask  ?" 

"  Because  that  seems  to  me  the  only  right  thing  to  do." 

"  Well,  I  will  think  about  it.  Now  go  down,  please, 
and  do  not  worry  if  Millard  or  Aunt  Pelham  should 


240  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

insist  on  running  up-stairs  to  see  how  I  look.  I  am  feel- 
ing ill  enough,  in  all  conscience,  not  to  be  suspected  of 
playing  possum.  Ah,  here  is  Teresa  again.  I  will  send 
her  to  order  the  dinner  served." 


CHAPTER   XXX. 

WHEN  Cynthia  returned  to  the  drawing-room  the  first 
person  she  saw  was  Millard  Henderson,  still  keeping  up 
the  semblance  of  a  conversation  with  Granby  Neil  and 
Mrs.  Pelham,  but  with  his  eyes  uneasily  fixed  on  the 
door. 

He  hastened  forward  to  meet  her  the  moment  she  ap- 
peared, questioning  her  closely  and  anxiously  as  to  how 
she  left  Posey,  and,  when  she  told  him  that  Mrs.  Hender- 
son would  not  be  able  to  come  down  to  dinner  after  all, 
ended  by  asking  her  to  excuse  him  one  moment  that  he 
might  slip  up-stairs  and  find  out  if  there  were  anything 
he  could  do  for  his  wife. 

"  Mrs.  Henderson  hoped  you  would  explain  her  regret 
and  her  indisposition  to  her  other  guests,  and  that  you 
would  ask  Mrs.  Pelham  to  take  her  place  at  the  head  of 
the  table,"  interposed  Cynthia,  thinking  it  better  that  he 
should  not  go  and  question  Posey  if  it  could  be  avoided, 
as  the  interview  was  likely  to  be  productive  of  fresh  agi- 
tation ;  but  Millard,  who  had  cause  of  a  nature  she  did 
not  suspect  to  be  anxious  about  his  wife,  still  persisted. 

"  I  must  tell  her,"  he  said,  "  who  our  new  guest  is. 
Have  you  heard,  by  the  bye,  of  the  return  of  Granby 
Neil  ?  I  knew  nothing  of  it,  and  the  surprise  was  over- 
whelming for  a  moment,  being  really  attached  to  the 
man  and  having  long  believed  him  dead." 

"  I  can  easily  understand  it ;  but  will  it  be  best  to  speak 
of  this  to  Mrs.  Henderson  just  now?" 

"  I  think  so.  She  would  want  to  know ;  and,  besides, 
I  have  asked  him  to  come  and  spend  Sunday  with  us 


BROKEN  CHORDS. 

As  for  making  her  excuses,  I  have  already  spoken  of  her 
not  feeling  quite  well  to  Neil  and  to  Danforth  as  a  reason 
for  her  absence  from  the  room.  It  will  be  easy  to  explain 
to  them  her  non-appearance  later,  and  to  give  a  hint  to 
Aunt  Pelham  to  play  the  hostess ;  or  perhaps  you  could 
do  that  ?" 

"  I  will  speak  to  Mrs.  Pelham  of  it  as  a  request  from 
you,  if  you  wish  it,"  replied  Cynthia,  who  saw  in  this 
suggestion  an  opportunity  of  carrying  out  Posey's  in- 
structions with  regard  to  Mr.  Neil,  as  he  was  now  talking 
to  Mrs.  Pelham. 

Millard  answered  with  a  grateful  smile. 

Cynthia  did  not  let  herself  stop  to  think  what  part 
she  was  playing  in  this  complicated  drama, — in  fact,  she 
did  not  know, — but  advanced  to  where  Mr.  Granby  Neil 
and  Mrs.  Pelham  were  standing. 

"  I  wonder  whether  you  remember  me,  Mr.  Neil,  as 
well  as  I  do  you  ?  Have  you  forgotten  the  Cynthia 
Arkwright  of  many  years  ago  ?" 

"  Forgotten  Miss  Arkwright !  I  should  think  not," 
said  Granby  Neil.  "  I  was  saying  to  Dr.  Danforth  last 
evening  how  well  I  remembered  you.  And  Mrs.  Pelham 
here  has  just  been  pointing  out  to  me  another  Miss 
Arkwright,  who  has  spent  her  time  in  becoming  a  woman 
while  I  have  been  passing  mine  in  a  coffin." 

"  In  a  coffin,  Mr.  Neil  ?  Oh,  surely  not !  People  do 
not  paint  beautiful  pictures  in  their  coffins,"  cried  Mrs. 
Pelham.  "  Just  look,  Cynthia,  at  this  pretty  souvenir 
which  Mr.  Neil  has  been  so  kind  as  to  bring  to  me  of  a 
view  in  the  National  Park,"  she  continued,  showing  as 
she  spoke  a  small  painting,  something  like  the  one  which 
Dr.  Danforth  had  presented  to  Miss  Betterton  in  sub- 
ject, but  it  was  painted  on  the  skin  of  some  animal,  and 
larger.  The  chief  object  in  the  foreground  was  in  both 
instances  a  geyser  in  full  play,  but  a  low  group  of  ex- 
quisitely-tinted shrubs  and  several  human  figures  were 
brought  in  on  one  side  of  this  picture,  giving  a  more 
realizing  idea  of  the  size  and  grandeur  of  the  great  nat- 
ural fountain.  Not  being  constrained  by  the  hard  sur- 


242  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

face  of  a  stone,  the  artist's  brush  had  also  been  free  to 
render  the  atmospheric  effects  of  the  clouds  of  spray, 
the  sky,  and  the  distance  with  much  more  truth  and 
beauty  in  the  tiny  landscape  he  brought  Mrs.  Pelham 
than  in  the  huge  paper-weight  he  had  given  Dr.  Dan 
forth. 

"  Truly,  if  you  wished  us  to  believe  that  you  had 
Deen  in  your  coffin  you  should  not  have  brought  back 
such  memories,  Mr.  Neil,"  returned  Cynthia.  "  We  are 
more  apt  to  believe  that  you  have  strayed  into  another 
brighter  world  than  this  our  own  dull  sphere." 

"  How  is  Posey  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Pelham  of  Cynthia,  as 
their  heads  were  bent  together  over  the  painting,  speak- 
ing in  a  low  tone  which  she  knew  the  deaf  man  could 
not  hear. 

Cynthia  explained  in  the  same  key  that  Mrs.  Hen- 
derson was  not  able  to  appear,  adding  the  request  from 
Henderson  that  his  aunt  would  preside  in  his  wife's 
place;  whereat  Mrs.  Pelham  turned  to  excuse  herself 
to  the  artist. 

"Mrs.  Henderson  is  not  feeling  well,"  she  said,  "and 
there  is  something  which  I  must  attend  to  for  her." 
Cynthia  saw  that  she  too  was  contemplating  a  visit  to 
Posey,  at  which  she  was  half  amused  and  half  regretful, 
but  could  only  let  things  take  their  course. 

"  I  hear  on  all  sides  that  Mrs.  Henderson  is  not  feeling 
well,  and  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it,"  said  Granby  Neil,  turn- 
ing to  Cynthia  as  Mrs.  Pelham  left  the  room,  "  but  I 
confess,  my  dear  lady,  that  I  never  have  seen  you  looking 
better, — no,  not  even  at  your  first  ball,  where  I  distinctly 
remember  having  had  the  pleasure  of  taking  you  to 
supper,  although  you  have  probably  long  since  forgotten 
the  incident." 

Cynthia  was  gratified,  surprised,  and  a  little  puzzled 
by  this  uncompromising  compliment.  Few  of  us  dislike 
to  be  told  that  we  are  looking  well,  however,  and  it  was 
with  a  pleasant  sense  of  exhilaration  that  she  answered, 
assuring  Mr.  Neil  that  if  she  did  not  remember  going 
to  supper  with  him  on  this  particular  occasion,  she  could 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  243 

yet  recall  many  pleasant  conversations  which  they  had 
had  together. 

At  this  moment  Mrs.  Pelham  and  Henderson  re-en- 
tered the  room.  Little  Wilfred  was  with  them,  clinging 
shyly  to  his  great-aunt's  hand.  Cynthia  saw  Millard 
speak  to  Dr.  Danforth  and  Mr.  Betterton,  who  were 
severally  engaged  in  talking  to  Florence  Betterton  and 
Nathalie.  He  then  advanced  to  where  they  were  stand- 
ing. He  had  apparently  decided  that  it  would  be  proper 
that  Granby  Neil  should  take  his  aunt,  Mrs.  Pelham,  to 
dinner  in  the  absence  of  his  wife ;  but  perhaps  he  noticed 
that  Cynthia  and  the  artist  were  in  the  midst  of  a  pleas- 
ant conversation. 

"  I  do  not  know  whether  to  ask  you  to  take  in  Mrs. 
Pelham  or  Miss  Arkwright,  my  dear  Neil,"  he  said, 
affectionately. 

"  Oh,  as  for  that,  my  good  fellow,  do  not  trouble  your- 
self about  me,"  replied  Neil,  who  evidently  did  not  catch 
Mrs.  Pelham's  name  at  all,  but  turned  his  eyes  in  the 
direction  of  Nathalie  Arkwright,  where  she  was  seated  in 
a  graceful  attitude  on  a  low  ottoman  beside  the  fire,  talking 
or  listening  to  Tom  Betterton,  who  looked  very  contented. 

"  Miss  Arkwright  appears  to  be  more  appropriately 
mated  than  she  would  be  with  me,"  proceeded  Neil, 
"and  if  I  am  to  have  any  say  in  the  matter,  I  shall 
decide  unhesitatingly  to  take  in  Mrs.  Henderson."  He 
bowed,  as  he  spoke,  to  Cynthia,  and  offered  her  his  arm, 
but  she  did  not  take  it.  Her  face  suddenly  became 
suffused  with  a  deep,  burning  blush.  Millard  Henderson 
looked  at  Cynthia  with  a  throb  of  dismay,  as  they  both 
became  conscious  that  Granby  Neil  had  mistaken  her  for 
Millard's  wife,  but  his  consternation  changed  to  surprise. 

"  You  thought  Mr.  Henderson  suggested  to  you  to 
take  my  sister,  Mr.  Neil  ?  I  only  wish  you  could  make 
a  picture  of  her  just  as  she  is,"  said  Cynthia,  quickly. 
"  Some  day  I  shall  get  you  to  paint  a  portrait  of  her  for 
me.  I  should  like  one  looking  just  as  she  looks  at  this 
moment." 

"  I  should  like  to  paint  it,"  said  Neil. 


244  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

She  thus  succeeded  in  entirely  diverting  the  artist's 
attention,  but,  gallantly  as  she  strove  to  conceal  her 
confusion,  her  embarrassment  grew  as  she  more  and 
more  fully  comprehended  the  extreme  awkwardness  of 
the  situation. 

It  was  easy  to  see  just  how  the  misunderstanding  had 
come  about.  First  Henderson  apologized  to  his  guest 
for  his  wife's  absence,  on  the  ground  of  temporary  indis- 
position, declaring  that  she  would  soon  return,  and  Cyn- 
thia at  this  time  had  been  out  of  the  room.  She  came 
back  a  short  while  after,  and  was  met  by  Millard  with 
solicitude  at  the  door.  Then  she  had  advanced  and 
greeted  Neil  warmly,  as  a  hostess  might  who  recognized 
in  him  an  old  friend. 

All  this  flashed  through  Cynthia's  mind  in  an  instant, 
as  also  Neil's  surprise  that  she  should  be  said  to  feel 
ill  when  she  was  looking  so  well,  which  explained  his 
reassuring  compliments ;  but  back  of  it  all  lay  a  cir- 
cumstance which  she  had  failed  to  recall  until  now,  that 
the  last  time  she  had  seen  Granby  Neil  she  had  been 
engaged  to  be  married  to  Millard  Henderson. 

Henderson,  who  was  conscious  of  this  fact  from  the 
first,  as  Neil  had  been  one  of  the  few  confidants  of  his 
betrothal  to  Cynthia,  was  also  fully  alive  to  the  diffi- 
culties of  their  position.  This  was  not  only  too  painful 
and  complicated  to  be  accounted  for  in  a  few  words,  but 
how  could  explanations  be  offered  to  a  man  as  deaf  as 
Mr.  Neil  which  would  escape  being  heard  by  every  other 
person  in  the  room  ? 

He  could  not  know  of  another  fear  which  added  to 
the  paralyzing  sense  of  helplessness  which  was  beginning 
to  creep  over  Cynthia ;  that  is,  the  question  as  to  whether 
Posey's  identity  would  not  surely  be  betrayed  in  any 
explanation  which  could  be  thought  of?  Was  Millard 
about  to  explain  ?  She  expected  every  moment  to  hear 
him  do  so,  and,  hearing  nothing,  she  raised  her  eyes  to 
his,  perhaps  unconsciously  conveying  some  of  the  appre- 
hension which  she  felt.  "What  is  to  be  done  next?" 
her  eyes  seemed  to  be  asking  him. 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  24$ 

At  any  rate,  Henderson  must  so  have  interpreted  them, 
for  he  said  in  a  low  tone  which  only  she  could  hear, 
"It  is  much  better  to  let  it  pass.  I  will  explain  later;" 
and  then  added,  more  loudly,  "  As  you  please,  Neil.  I 
will  take  Mrs.  Pelham  gladly;  and  as  the  dinner  is  given 
for  her,  it  is  perhaps  more  appropriate  that  I  should  do 
so,  although  I  would  have  provided  her  with  a  more 
agreeable  companion."  He  turned  away  quickly,  and 
there  had  been  a  momentary  light  in  his  face  which 
Cynthia  did  not  quite  understand,  but  that  was  all. 

It  was  indeed  fortunate  that  the  artist,  whose  eyes 
were  as  sharp  as  his  ears  were  dull,  should  have  had 
his  attention  occupied  by  observing  the  subject  of  the 
future  picture  that  he  had  been  told  would  be  wanted 
from  his  brush,  and  should  have  chanced  to  be  struck 
with  something  unusual  in  the  girl's  face.  Thus  led 
to  make  a  mental  note  of  its  peculiar  combination  of 
strength  and  softness,  as  well  as  of  the  momentary  atti- 
tude and  expression  of  Nathalie  Arkwright,  he  was 
prevented  from  noticing  Cynthia's  agitation  or  the  tele- 
graphic communication  that  passed  between  herself  and 
Henderson. 

As  she  and  Granby  Neil  followed  behind  all  the  others 
into  the  dining-room,  Cynthia  had  time  to  consider  how 
strangely  everything  had  happened  according  to  the 
exact  letter  of  Posey's  wishes,  although  through  means 
and  causes  as  unforeseen  as  they  were  unintended  to 
produce  these  results.  Mr.  Neil  was  as  far  as  possible 
from  imagining  what  Mrs.  Henderson's  maiden  name 
had  been,  and  nothing  had  happened  to  enlighten  him  on 
the  subject.  He  did  take  Cynthia  in  to  dinner,  although 
entirely  of  his  own  impulse,  and,  in  consequence  of  the 
unparalleled  mistake  which  he  had  been  led  into  so  nat- 
urally, she  had  much  greater  facility  for  watching  over 
him  and  much  more  power  to  prevent  him  from  learning 
that  of  which  Mrs.  Henderson  desired  him  to  remain 
ignorant  than  she  could  have  attained  in  any  other  way. 

The  only  question  which  caused  Posey's  temporary 
accomplice  any  uneasiness  was  as  to  what  might  be  said 

21* 


246  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

to  inform  Mr.  Neil  of  his  mistake  after  the  ladies  left  the 
dining-room.  Would  not  Henderson  probably  seize  the 
first  opportunity  after  the  ladies  were  gone  of  speaking 
to  his  friend  apart  from  the  other  men,  and  endeavoring 
to  make  him  understand  things,  so  as  to  avoid  future 
awkwardness  ?  Such,  indeed,  would  have  been  the  course 
of  events  that  she  would  most  have  desired  had  it  not 
been  for  Mrs.  Henderson  and  the  promise  she  had  made 
her,  but  it  was  evident  that  to  carry  this  out  she  must 
devise  some  plan  to  prevent  Millard  and  Granby  Neil 
from  being  thrown  together. 

The  dinner  passed  to  her  as  a  strange  dream.  She 
was  conscious  that  every  one  was  in  excellent  spirits 
in  spite  of  the  defection  of  the  hostess.  She  knew  that 
Dr.  Danforth,  who  sat  next  her,  was  unusually  absorbed 
in  his  conversation  with  Florence  Betterton,  and  that 
Nathalie,  who  sat  opposite,  if  slightly  bored  was  rather 
amused  by  Florence's  brother,  who  was  waxing  more 
and  more  attentive.  She  saw  her  turn  to  Millard,  on 
whose  right  hand  she  had  been  placed,  for  relief,  and 
realized  that  Henderson,  who  could  always  shine  in 
society  when  so  minded,  was  talking  more  brilliantly 
than  usual.  She  did  not  fail  to  note  the  charming  mix- 
ture of  grace  and  dignity  with  which  Mrs.  Pelham  pre- 
sided, just  as  she  remembered  having  seen  her  do  many, 
many  times  in  the  old  days  at  Fern  wood,  when  Mr. 
Pelham  sat  at  the  other  end  of  the  table  where  Hen- 
derson was  sitting  now,  and  she  could  not  help  wondering 
whether  he  too  were  thinking  of  those  old  days  when 
they  had  first  met  beneath  this  very  roof.  Then  she 
was  recalled  to  the  present  by  feeling  Millard's  eyes 
upon  her  with  a  half-quizzical  expression,  as  though  he 
could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  teasing  her  a  little 
over  the  absurdity  of  their  situation,  which  if  it  had 
held  no  element  of  tragedy  in  it  for  either,  would  have 
been  so  very  comical  for  both. 

The  repast  was  nearly  ended  before  any  expedient  for 
preventing  the  explanation  which  she  would  have  been 
only  too  thankful  to  have  over  presented  itself  to  her 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  247 

tired  brain.  Then  she  suddenly  remembered  Mr.  Pel- 
ham's  portrait,  which  had  already  done  good  service 
that  evening,  but  it  was  possible  Neil  might  not  have 
seen  it,  and  happily  she  discovered  that  he  had  not. 

"  I  should  like  so  much  to  show  this  picture  to  you," 
she  said.  "  Will  you  go  back  with  us  to  the  drawing- 
room  and  forego  your  cigar  ?  I  am  sure  you  are  a  man 
who  cares  much  more  for  a  contemplative  pipe  than  a 
social  cigarette !"  She  laughed  rather  nervously  as  she 
said  this,  having  but  the  faintest  hope  that  her  random 
shot  would  find  a  mark. 

"  How  in  the  world  did  you  guess  that  ?"  asked  Neil, 
in  great  astonishment.  "  Oh,  I  see  ;  Millard  must  have 
told  you,  of  course.  No  ?  Well,  then  you  are  a  fairy 
as  well  as  a  goddess.  I  suppose  you  know  that  we  all 
used  to  compare  you  to  a  goddess, — or  a  daughter  of 
the  gods,  perhaps, — I  forget  which !  It  was  that  fellow 
at  the  end  of  the  table  who  used  to  do  most  of  the 
quoting  about  your  being  '  divinely  tall  and  most  di- 
vinely fair,'  and  the  rest  of  it." 

"  Indeed,  I  did  not  know.  I  fear  you  must  have 
dreamed  it,  or  mixed  me  up  with  some  other  tall  young 
woman,  for  if  I  had  ever  heard  myself  so  apostrophized 
should  I  not  be  very  apt  to  recall  it,  since  I  have  such  a 
good  memory  with  regard  to  your  preference  in  smok- 
ing ?"  said  Cynthia,  demurely.  She  did  not  dare  look 
in  the  direction  of  Henderson.  If  she  had  done  so  she 
would  have  seen  that  it  was  his  turn  to  blush,  while 
Granby  Neil,  who  dearly  loved  to  amuse  himself  at  the 
expense  of  his  friends  and  was  delighted  to  perceive 
that  Millard  recognized  his  own  folly,  winked  at  him 
in  the  most  knowing  manner.  Indeed,  he  considered 
himself  especially  happy  in  his  allusion,  and  did  not 
regret  that,  owing  to  his  loud  tone,  it  was  even  heard 
by  Mrs.  Pelham,  while  that  lady  wondered  a  little  in  her 
gentle  way  at  his  want  of  tact  in  not  letting  things  which 
were  so  properly  bygones  be  bygones,  but  said  nothing. 

"  The  truth  is,"  resumed  Neil,  in  answer  to  Cynthia's 
return  to  the  subject  of  his  smoking,  "  that  a  man  who 


248  BROKEN  CHORDS, 

does  not  care  to  smoke  with  other  men,  as  I  do  not, 
learns  a  great  deal  more  about  their  secrets  than  one 
who  does,  if  he  be  inclined  to  sit  and  talk  to  them  while 
they  are  inspired  by  the  soothing  weed.  The  smoke  of 
a  cigar  seems  to  be  a  sort  of  outward  aroma  of  the  iden- 
tity of  the  smoker,  and  a  great  deal  of  confidence  is 
often  bestowed  with  it  upon  the  ungrateful  air,  while 
the  blessed  condition  of  giving  puts  a  man  out  of  the 
so  much  less  noble  state  for  receiving.  Why,  I  remem- 
ber how  Henderson  there  was  possessed  with  the  idea 
that  he  had  no  chance  at  all  in  a  certain  direction,  and 
that  I  had  to  repeat  to  him  all  the  nice  things  I  had 
ever  heard  the  lady  say  about  him  before  he  could  get 
courage  enough  to  propose ;  and  yet  to  see  him  ordi- 
narily in  society  you  would  think  him  as  conceited  a 
fellow  as  ever  went  courting." 

As  Mr.  Neil  proceeded,  he  had  turned  and  was  now 
addressing  himself  to  Mrs.  Pelham,  still  serenely  uncon- 
scious of  the  embarrassment  he  was  causing  on  all  sides 
of  him.  Presently,  however,  when  he  glanced  back  at 
his  neighbor,  he  did  notice  that  her  color  was  consider- 
ably heightened,  and  he  had  the  grace  to  change  the  sub- 
ject, having  an  old-fashioned  theory  that  the  more  a  man 
were  put  to  confusion  the  better  the  joke,  but  that  it 
was  no  truly  gallant  gentleman  who  would  not  spare  a 
woman's  blushes,  let  them  be  ever  so  becoming. 

Mrs.  Pelham,  without  having  the  key  to  the  situation, 
was  fully  alive  to  its  unpleasantness.  She  perceived  that 
both  the  Bettertons  and  Dr.  Danforth  were  looking  sur- 
prised and  curious,  while  only  Nathalie  Arkwright  pre- 
tended to  be  unconscious,  and,  noting  the  ill-feigned 
indifference  of  Mr.  Neil's  two  victims,  decided  to  put  an 
end  to  it  by  giving  the  sign  to  rise  from  table. 

"  I  should  like  very  much  to  see  the  portrait  you 
spoke  of,"  said  Neil  to  Cynthia,  as  he  held  the  door  foi 
her  to  pass  out,  "  and  will  take  the  permission  which 
you  kindly  offer  me  to  follow  you  to  the  drawing-room." 

She  was  so  completely  unstrung  by  the  ordeal  of  the 
last  few  minutes  that  she  could  hardly  get  up  the  courage 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  249 

to  answer,  yet  at  least  it  was  well  to  feel  that  she  had 
gained  the  point  which  had  cost  her  so  dear,  and  she 
therefore  bestowed  a  faint  but  encouraging  smile  upon 
the  innocent  and  aggravating  cause  of  her  discomfiture. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

As  for  Mrs.  Henderson,  her  mind  continued  in  a 
ferment  of  apprehension  and  indecision  until  after  her 
husband's  visit  to  her.  From  this  she  learned  two 
things  :  first,  that  there  had  been  no  immediate  commu- 
nication made  to  him  by  Mr.  Neil  of  the  character  which 
she  dreaded,  and,  second,  that  he  had  asked  his  old 
friend  to  spend  the  following  day  at  Fernwood. 

"  1  know  you  will  be  glad,  my  dear,  to  hear  that 
Granby  Neil  has  promised  to  come  to  us  for  a  little 
visit,"  Millard  had  said.  "  It  may  be  a  short  one,  as  he 
has  some  urgent  matter  to  attend  to  in  New  York  next 
week,  but  I  have  arranged  to  meet  him  after  church  to- 
morrow and  drive  him  home,  so  that  at  least  we  shall 
have  him  with  us  for  a  day  and  night ;"  and  then  Posey 
no  longer  felt  any  doubt  as  to  what  she  would  do.  Her 
mind  was  fully  made  up. 

She  lay  still,  after  her  husband  had  left  her,  for  half  an 
hour,  until  she  had  received  the  sympathy  and  solici- 
tations of  Mrs.  Pelham,  and  knew  by  the  sound  of  voices 
that  her  guests  had  passed  into  the  dining-room,  when 
she  arose,  and,  having  carefully  locked  the  doors  of  her 
bedchamber  and  dressing-room,  proceeded  to  divest  her- 
self of  the  pretty  dress  which  she  had  put  on  with  an 
almost  happy  heart  an  hour  before,  and  to  replace  it  by 
a  short,  tight-fitting  walking-suit  of  dark  cloth.  She 
encased  her  feet  in  stout  boots,  and,  removing  the  orna- 
ments from  her  hair,  put  on  a  bonnet  of  the  same  dark 
color  as  the  dress ;  but  when  about  to  cover  it  with  a  veil 
she  paused  as  though  struck  by  a  sudden  thought,  then 


250  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

quickly  took  it  off,  and  unlocking  a  deep,  square  drawer 
in  a  desk  which  stood  in  the  outer  room,  or  boudoir, 
searched  in  it  until  she  found  a  roll  of  bank-notes,  which 
she  folded  in  a  leather  pocket-case  and  hid  in  her  breast, 
buttoning  it  tightly  beneath  the  waist  of  her  dress.  She 
then  slipped  the  bonnet  and  veil  and  a  pair  of  gloves 
inside  the  drawer  and  turned  the  key. 

As  she  accomplished  these  preparations  she. heard  a 
step  outside  her  door,  and,  hastily  throwing  a  large,  loose- 
sleeved  India  silk  dressing-gown  about  her,  the  volu- 
minous folds  of  which  entirely  concealed  her  cloth  cos- 
tume, admitted  Teresa,  who  had  been  sent  up  with  some 
dinner,  of  which  the  invalid  partook  sparingly.  She 
reclined  on  a  couch  the  while,  with  an  embroidered 
afghan  thrown  across  her  feet. 

Here,  indeed,  Cynthia  found  her  later  when,  having 
succeeded  in  drawing  Mrs.  Pelham  into  the  conversation, 
she  ventured  to  leave  Mr.  Neil  in  order  to  keep  her 
promise  of  returning  to  report  to  Posey;  but  in  the 
mean  while  Mrs.  Henderson  said  to  her  maid, — 

"  Teresa,  I  have  had  some  bad  news." 

"  Oh,  my  sakes,  Mrs.  Henderson  !  I  thought  you  was 
looking  all  gone  away  like !"  cried  the  vivacious  Teresa, 
who  was  from  one  of  the  northern  States  of  New  Eng- 
land, the  general  direction  of  which  she  was  in  the  habit 
of  describing  by  saying  that  she  came  from  "  down  East." 

"  Yes,  I  have  had  a  message  from — from  my  mother. 
She  is  ill,  and  I  must  go  to  her  at  once." 

"  Do  tell !"  ejaculated  the  maid.  "  Why,  how  ever  did 
it  come  ?" 

"  Oh,  it  came  when  Dr.  Danforth  did,  and  that  was 
what  made  me  feel  so  badly.  And  now,  Teresa,  I  want 
you  to  say  nothing  to  any  one,  but  go  into  my  room 
and  put  a  few  things  together  in  a  small  bag  such  as  I 
shall  need  for  the  night,  and  then  take  the  bag  down 
and  tell  Malachi  to  get  the  close  carriage  ready  and 
bring  it  to  the  side  door,  and  see  that  the  bag  is  put  in 
it  Remember,  not  a  word  to  any  one  but  Malachi, 
Teresa." 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  25  I 

"  No,  to  be  sure  not ;  but  how  soon  are  you  going, 
marm  ?" 

"  As  soon  as  Malachi  can  get  the  carriage.  Tell  him 
to  hurry.  There,  you  can  go  and  be  packing  the  bag 
while  I  eat  my  dinner." 

Teresa  vanished,  and  returned  in  a  few  minutes — not 
more  than  ten — with  the  travelling-bag  and  a  large  shawl 
over  her  ai  m. 

"  Shall  I  not  help  you  get  your  dress  on,  marm,  before 
I  go,  or  shall  I  come  back  for  that  ?" 

"  No,  you  need  not  come  back.  I  can  manage  very 
well,  thank  you,  without  help.  Go  down  at  once  and 
speak  to  Malachi,  and  be  ready  to  come  when  I  ring, — 
not  before.  I  think  I  hear  Miss  Arkwright  on  the 
stairs,  and  I  must  see  her  first.  That  shawl  is  a  good 
idea,  Teresa ;  just  throw  it  over  the  bag  as  you  go  down- 
stairs ;  and  you  might  as  well  go  through  my  chamber  : 
you  will  be  less  apt  to  meet  any  one." 

"  Well,  what  news  ?"  she  asked,  breathlessly,  of  Cyn- 
thia, who  came  in  one  door  as  the  maid  went  out  the 
other. 

Cynthia  gave  her  a  brief  account  of  what  had  hap- 
pened, contenting  herself  with  assuring  her  that  Mr. 
Neil  certainly  did  not  know  who  Mrs.  Henderson  had 
been,  and  that  she  succeeded  in  preventing  any  one 
from  telling  him,  at  which  Posey  breathed  a  sigh  of 
relief.  Miss  Arkwright  did  not  mention  the  mistake 
through  which  she  was  furnished  with  a  proof  of  these 
facts.  She  saw  no  reason  why  she  should  encounter 
the  annoyance  of  discussing  it.  "  Now,  what  have  you 
decided  to  do  ?"  she  asked,  at  last. 

"About  what?" 

"Do  you  not  remember  what  we  were  talking  of 
before  I  went  down-stairs  ?" 

"  You  mean  the  advice  you  gave  me  as  to  the  expe- 
diency of  telling  my  husband  ?" 

"  I  do." 

"  You  have  never  been  married,  Miss  Arkwright." 

"  No." 


BROKEN  CHORDS. 

"  If  you  ever  had  been,  and  knew  that  there  was  some- 
thing which  if  you  told  your  husband  might  prevent 
him  from  ever  speaking  to  you  again,  do  you  think  you 
would  tell  it  to  him  ?" 

"  I  think  I  should, — that  is,  if  I  loved  him." 

"  If  you  loved  him  ?  Why,  if  I  did  not  love  him  I 
should  tell  him  in  a  minute ;  but  to  lose  his  love, — to 
lose  his  care, — even  his  kindness !"  she  cried,  passion- 
ately. "  I  cannot  do  it !  It  is  more  than  I  could  bear !" 

"  Are  you  not  exaggerating  the  probable  or  possible 
results  of  this  communication  ?"  asked  Cynthia.  "  Surely 
your  husband  would  not  turn  from  you  entirely  in  con- 
sequence of  something  which  happened  before  he  had  a 
right  to  claim  you  ?  The  only  pity  is  that  you  should 
not  have  told  him  of  it  before." 

"  Yes, — yes, — in  a  way,  the  long  concealment  makes  it 
worse  ;  but  yet — if  I  had  told  him  he  would  know" 

"And  would  not  the  worst  be  over  when  he  did 
know?" 

"  It  might  have  once,  but  not  now.  Now  I  must 
prevent  his  knowing,  at  any  cost." 

"  Then  you  intend  to  continue  to  deceive  your  hus- 
band about  something  which  he  evidently  has  a  right  to 
be  told,  although  you  are  liable  at  any  moment  to  be 
plunged  in  a  paroxysm  of  anxiety  such  as  that  which 
overtook  you  before  you  came  up-stairs  to-night? 
Surely,  surely,  it  would  be  better  to  brave  his  anger, 
whatever  you  may  have  done,  than  to  live  such  a  haunted 
life,  always  fearing  discovery !" 

"  Haunted  indeed,"  said  Posey,  faintly,  "  for  we  all 
thought  Mr.  Neil  was  dead.  It  was  natural  I  should 
have  been  a  good  deal  shaken  at  seeing  him  again. 
That,  at  least,  is  over.  He  can  only  come  back  once." 

"  But,  as  I  understand  it,"  persisted  Cynthia,  "  it  was 
not  merely  seeing  him.  It  was  the  fear  of  what  he 
might  divulge  which  shocked  you  so.  Is  it  not  much 
better  to  take  the  chance  which  now  is  yours  and  be 
'.he^  first  to  speak  of  this  thing  to  your  husband  ?" 

She  had  taken  Posey's  hand,  was  holding  it  in  hers, 


BROKEN  CHOHDS.  253 

and  looking  into  her  face  very  anxiously  and  earnestly, 
but  the  hand  was  drawn  away  impatiently. 

"  You  do  not  understand  !  How  can  you  ?  You  do 
not  know  as  I  do  how  it  would  be  with  Millard.  He 
might  want  to  forgive,  he  might  be  sorry  for  me,  but 

he  would  not  think  it  right — to — to Oh,  I  cannot 

explain  !  No  one  can  help  me !" 

"No  one?" 

"  There  is  one  person  who  might,  but  he  is  not  here." 

"  Who  is  it  ?" 

Posey  looked  at  Cynthia  doubtfully  a  moment,  then 
she  said,  "  It  is  Mr.  Ledyard.  You  do  not  happen  by 
any  chance  to  know  the  address  he  left  with  his  house- 
keeper? I  mean  the  name  of  the  hotel  at  which  he 
intended  to  stay  in  New  York  ?" 

"  I  had  a  note  from  him  this  morning,"  said  Cynthia, 
gravely,  "  which  was  dated  from  a  hotel  in  New  York." 

"  What  hotel  ?" 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  know  ?" 

"  Because  he  is  the  only  person  who  can  advise  me. 
Tell  me  quick ;  I  hear  some  one  coming !" 

Cynthia  listened  ;  she  too  heard  footsteps  on  the  stairs. 
"  There  would  be  no  use  in  your  writing  to  him."  she 
said.  "  He  could  not  get  a  letter  there,  for  he  will  be 
here  to-morrow." 

"  I  can  telegraph  ;  to-morrow  will  be  too  late.  Tell  me, 
for  mercy's  sake,  dear  Miss  Arkwright !  I  swear  to  you 
that  I  mean  no  harm  in  asking  him  to  help  me !"  she  im- 
plored, seizing  the  hand  she  had  rejected  and  looking  up 
in  her  turn  with  beseeching  eyes. 

Cynthia  hesitated.  Her  faith  in  Mrs.  Henderson  was 
not  so  great  as  it  had  been  before  this  conversation,  but 

o 

that  in  Richard  was  strong  as  steel,  and  he  had  certainly 
given  her  to  understand  that  the  matter  which  had  taken 
him  to  New  York  concerned  some  one  whom  she  had 
already  guessed  to  be  Mrs.  Henderson.  It  suddenly 
flashed  through  her  mind  that  the  man  of  whom  he 
had  spoken  as  having  been  supposed  to  be  dead  could 
be  none  other  than  Granby  Neil,  and,  if  this  were  the 


254  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

case,  by  going  to  New  York  he  had  just  missed  his 
aim.  Thought  is  so  quick  that  all  this  passed  in  an  in- 
stant, while  she  was  conscious  of  the  footsteps  drawing 
nearer.  Then  she  stooped  and  whispered  the  name  of 
the  hotel  in  Posey's  ear  just  as  Henderson  entered  the 
room. 

They  both  looked  slightly  startled  as  he  did  so,  but 
neither  was  prepared  for  the  transformation  from  his 
usually  calm  expression  to  the  one  that  his  face  now 
wore.  He  was  very  pale.  His  brow  was  contracted 
almost  as  though  in  pain,  and  his  eyes  shone  with  a  dark, 
angry  light. 

He  did  not  look  at  Cynthia,  but  went  directly  to  his 
wife's  couch  with  a  paper  in  his  hand  that  proved  to  be 
an  open  note,  and,  spreading  it  out  before  her,  said,  in  a 
low,  unsteady  voice,  "  Posey,  what  does  this  mean  ?" 

"  DEAR  DICK"  (the  note  said), — "  I  want  to  warn  you, 
if  you  should  come,  that  my  husband  as  yet  knows 
nothing.  I  am  aware  that  the  week  is  past,  but  I  cannot 
bring  myself  to  tell  him.  I  have  tried,  indeed,  but  to 
speak  now,  after  keeping  silent  for  so  long,  seems  to  me 
impossible.  For  pity's  sake  say  nothing ;  or  if  you  will 
tell  him  of  our  real  relation  to  one  another,  as  you 
threatened,  invent  some  other  reason  than  the  one  you 
know  for  my  having  hidden  it  from  him  ever  since  he 
and  I  were  married. 

"  Remember,  Richard,  that  I  love  him  as  I  never  loved 
any  other  man.  I  will  not  forgive  you  if  you  deprive 
me  of  his  affection,  now  or  ever. 

"  Your  most  forlorn,  despairing 

"  POSEY." 

Mrs.  Henderson  gazed  at  it  speechlessly,  with  hope- 
less eyes.  It  was  the  note  which  she  had  been  writing 
an  evening  or  two  before,  when  her  husband  entered  the 
drawing-room  unexpectedly  and  caused  her  to  put  it 
away,  and  that  she  had  sent  afterwards  by  Wilfred  to 
Mr.  Ledyard,  to  whom  it  was  distinctly  directed,  but 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  2$$ 

who  was  destined  never  to  receive  it,  as,  owing  to  the 
over-faithfulness  of  the  little  messenger,  it  had  been 
brought  back  on  Wilfred's  learning  of  Mr.  Ledyard's 
absence,  which  prevented  him  from  delivering  it  into  his 
own  hands. 

"  What  does  it  mean  ?"  repeated  Henderson  more 
sternly,  while  Cynthia,  although  filled  with  anxiety  for 
both  of  them,  felt  that  it  was  in  no  way  proper  that 
she  should  assist  at  such  a  scene,  and  was  already  has- 
tening towards  the  door. 

Posey  turned  her  eyes  slowly  from  the  open  note  to 
Cynthia's  retreating  form.  "I  beg  you  not  to  go,  Miss 
Arkwright,"  she  said,  in  a  hard,  strained  tone ;  "  or,  if 
you  must  leave  me,  take  my  husband  with  you.  Per- 
haps you  can  make  him  understand  that  I  have  not  been 
feeling  very  well  this  evening,  and  that  his  manner  of  ad- 
dressing me  seems  very  strange, — very  strange  indeed," 
she  continued,  turning  a  sudden  wild  look  of  desperation 
upon  Henderson,  like  some  haunted  thing  at  bay. 

"  Have  you  no  explanation  to  offer,  Posey  ?"  he  asked 
for  the  third  time,  and  on  this  occasion,  her  help  having 
been  solicited  so  plainly  that  she  could  hardly  refuse 
it,  Cynthia  thought  it  right  to  interpose. 

"  It  is  true,  as  you  know,  my  friend,  that  your  wife  is 
not  well,"  she  said,  softly.  "  She  could  not  stand  when 
I  first  brought  her  up-stairs.  Whatever  that  note  may 
be, — for  I  have  not  seen  its  contents, — I  am  sure,  from 
the  name  of  the  person  to  whom  it  is  addressed,  which 
I  could  not  help  seeing,  that  it  can  be  explained  when- 
ever Mrs.  Henderson  is  feeling  better  and  able  to  make 
the  effort." 

"  That  is  right,  Miss  Arkwright,"  said  Posey,  with 
sudden  bitterness.  "  Pin  your  faith  on  Richard  Led- 
yard.  He  is  an  irreproachable  young  man." 

Whether  she  had  caught  the  expression  of  relief  with 
which  Henderson  turned  to  Cynthia,  or  resented  the  tone 
in  which  she  had  appealed  to  him  as  her  friend,  or  was 
merely  wounded  at  the  obvious  confidence  felt  in  Led- 
yard's integrity  and  honor  rather  than  her  own,  un- 


256  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

reasonable  as  such  offence  might  be  after  all  she  had 
said  and  left  unsaid  that  very  evening,  her  scornful  tone 
sent  a  shudder  through  Cynthia,  recalling  as  it  did  a 
certain  other  occasion  when  Posey  had  spoken  in  that 
key,  with  such  disastrous  results  to  her  own  happiness. 
Could  it  be  that  this  woman  was  twice  destined  to  destroy 
her  belief  in  a  man  who  had  seemed  so  much  above  his 
fellows  as  to  draw  out  all  her  sympathy  ? 

"  I  wish  you  would  both  go  away,"  continued  the  in- 
valid, in  a  petulant  tone.  "  I  am  tired  of  talking ;  I 
must  have  rest !" 

"  Would  it  not  be  well  to  leave  her  for  a  little  while  ?" 
asked  Cynthia,  mindful  of  the  alarm  which  she  knew 
Mrs.  Henderson  to  have  already  undergone  that  evening. 

Millard,  on  the  other  hand,  was  so  far  thrown  off  his 
guard  by  his  wife's  flighty  manner  and  strangely  child- 
ish way  of  taking  the  terrible  suspicion  to  which  her 
note  laid  her  open,  that  the  doubt  of  her  entire  sanity, 
which  had  before  occurred  to  him,  returned  as  a  very 
plausible  explanation  of  the  whole  matter.  In  fact,  she 
seemed  to  be  becoming  more  and  more  excited. 

"  You  heard  what  Miss  Arkwright  said,"  she  cried, 
with  shining  eyes.  "  Do  you  not  believe  Miss  Ark- 
wright ?  Is  she  not  a  saint  in  your  opinion  ?  Yet  she 
thinks  the  note  can  be  explained.  Now,  I,  too,  tell  you 
that  I  can  explain  it,  and  if  you  leave  me  I  will ;  but 
my  word  is  of  no  account,  of  course !" 

For  all  answer  Henderson  lifted  the  letter  from  where 
it  lay  and  placed  it  before  Cynthia.  "  If  my  wife  desires 
you  to  advise  in  this  matter,  you  must  do  so  understand- 
ing it  fully,"  he  said,  coldly.  He  watched  her  face  while 
she  read,  and,  as  she  ended,  asked, — 

"  Do  you  still  think  that  this  note  to  Mr.  Ledyard  can 
be  satisfactorily  explained  ?" 

"  I  still  think  that  it  cannot  mean  what  it  seems  to 
mean,"  she  answered,  faintly. 

"  Then,  Posey,  you  shall  have  your  wish.  Miss  Ark- 
wright and  I  will  leave  you,  and  I  rely  on  your  promise 
to  explain  everything  when  I  return." 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  2$? 

"  Thank  you,"  replied  Mrs.  Henderson,  with  the  same 
hard  look  which  her  face  had  worn  when  he  first  entered ; 
but  as  they  reached  the  door,  she  suddenly  called  "  Mil- 
lard  !"  in  a  strange,  vibrating,  appealing  tone  which  Cyn- 
thia never  forgot.  She  left  the  room  hastily,  while 
Henderson  turned  back  and  went  and  stood  silently 
beside  his  wife.  Then  it  was  that  she  raised  her  head 
and  fixed  her  eyes  on  him  imploringly,  with  an  unspoken 
plea  for  mercy. 

"  What  is  it,  dear  ?"  he  asked.  "  Why  will  you  not 
speak,  and  tell  me  what  it  all  means  ?" 

"  Only  one  kiss, — just  one  !"  she  whispered.  And  when 
he  bent  down  to  her  very  gravely,  still  with  a  stern  brow, 
she  flung  her  arms  suddenly  about  his  neck,  and  held 
him  for  a  moment  clasped  closely  to  her  heart.  "  All 
shall  be  explained,  Millard,"  she  murmured,  with  her  face 
buried  in  his  breast. 

"  Then  why  not  explain  now  ?"  he  asked,  drawing 
back  gently  and  trying  to  look  into  her  face. 

"  Oh,  I  cannot !  I  cannot !  Only  go, — only  leave  me  !" 
she  cried,  passionately.  "  Have  I  not  promised  to  ex- 
plain everything?"  And, bursting  into  a  torrent  of  tears, 
she  wept  as  though  her  very  heart  were  breaking. 

Millard  was  much  moved,  but  he  was  also  greatly 
perplexed  and  rendered  very  anxious.  He  tried  in  every 
way  to  soothe  and  calm  her,  but  finding  that,  as  long  as 
he  asked  the  reason  of  her  agitation,  nothing  which  he 
said  had  any  effect,  he  at  last  desisted.  Saying  that  he 
would  return  when  she  was  more  composed,  he  left 
her,  with  a  parting  kiss,  but  with  a  troubled  mind. 


258  BROKEN  CHORDS. 


CHAPTER   XXXII. 

HENDERSON  had  forgotten  all  about  his  guests,  but  it 
did  not  appear  that  his  absence  had  been  especially  re- 
marked by  them. 

Granby  Neil  and  Mrs.  Pelham  were  no  longer  dis- 
cussing the  portrait,  but  had  fallen  to  talking  of  old 
times  over  the  drawing-room  fire.  Miss  Betterton  and 
her  brother  had  ordered  their  carriage,  and  were  about 
to  take  their  departure.  Dr.  Danforth  had  also  gone 
to  see  about  having  his  horse  and  chaise  brought  round, 
while  Miss  Arkwright  and  her  sister  had  had  time  to 
exchange  a  few  hurried  words  before  Millard  came  in. 
Returning  to  the  room  just  in  time  to  receive  the  adieus 
of  the  Bettertons  and  to  see  them  into  their  carriage,  he 
also  returned  to  the  realization  of  all  such  other  obli- 
gations which,  as  a  host,  he  seemed  to  be  strangely  neg- 
lecting. Granby  Neil  had  to  be  said  good-by  to  and 
offered  a  light  for  the  brier-wood  pipe  with  which  he 
proposed  to  solace  himself  on  the  way  home,  while  there 
were  anxious  inquiries  from  kind  Dr.  Danforth  with 
regard  to  Mrs.  Henderson's  health  that  had  to  be  met 
and  answered  in  the  spirit  in  which  they  were  made, 
without  betraying  the  so  much  more  poignant  and  press- 
ing cause  of  uneasiness  that  weighed  upon  his  spirits. 
These  various  duties  took  some  time,  perhaps  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour.  To  him  they  seemed  endless. 

In  the  midst  of  it  all  he  quite  forgot  that  he  had  found 
no  opportunity  to  set  Neil  right  with  regard  to  Cynthia 
and  himself,  while  she  was  so  absorbed  in  the  same 
doubt  and  perplexity  that  afflicted  him  as  also  to  fail  to 
remember  the  mistake  which  had  caused  her  such  annoy- 
ance. Somehow  she  could  not  bear  to  leave  the  house 
in  her  troubled  uncertainty  as  to  the  result  of  all  she 
had  learned  or  suspected  or  feared,  but  there  seemed  no 
excuse  for  lingering,  now  that  the  other  guests  were 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  259 

going  or  gone,  and  she  and  Nathalie  accordingly  pre- 
pared to  follow,  amid  affectionate  farewells  from  Mrs. 
Pelham.  While  this  kind  lady  was  saying  a  parting 
word  to  Nathalie,  Henderson  drew  Cynthia  aside. 

"  You  will  be  very  careful,  I  know,"  he  said,  "  that 
nothing  is  heard  by  any  one  of  the  very  painful  scene 
you  witnessed  to-night.  It  is  not  necessary  to  caution 
you  on  this  point,  but  may  I  ask  you  to  speak  to  your 
sister  and  desire  her  to  be  equally  discreet  as  to  the  note 
which  she  happened  to  find  and  which  I  took  from 
her?" 

"  Nathalie  was  telling  me  that  she  found  the  note,  or, 
rather,  that  she  and  Miss  Betterton  found  it  together," 
replied  Cynthia.  "  I  can  answer  for  Nathalie  as  for 
myself;  but  had  I  not  better  tell  her  to  warn  Florence 
Betterton  ?" 

"  As  you  please.  I  think,  as  a  rule,  the  less  words 
with  a  Betterton  the  better.  I  am  very  sorry  she  saw 
the  note." 

Millard  grew  suddenly  red.  "  Heavens  and  earth !" 
he  exclaimed.  "  When  I  think  what  that  girl's  mother 
dared  to  say  to  me,  and  that  I  would  not  give  it  a  second 
thought!  May  I  ask  you  what  reason  you  have  for 
placing  such  reliance  in  the  integrity  of  Mr.  Richard 
Ledyard  ?" 

As  Cynthia  opened  her  mouth  to  answer,  there  was 
a  sound  of  wheels  driving  rapidly  past  the  house. 

"  What  is  that?"  asked  Henderson,  nervously. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  our  carriage,"  said  Nathalie,  to  whom 
the  dinner  had  not  been  so  interesting  or  exciting  as  it 
had  been  to  Dr.  Danforth,  for  instance,  and  who  was 
also  impatient  to  get  home  and  "  talk  things  over"  with 
Cynthia. 

"  It  was  the  noise  of  a  carriage  being  driven  past  the 
house  towards  the  stable,"  replied  Millard.  "  If  you 
will  excuse  me,  I  will  ask  what  it  was."  He  stepped 
back  and  questioned  Pompey,  the  dusky  waiter,  but 
without  result,  as  Pompey  did  not  know.  He  had  evi- 
dently been  asleep  in  the  pantry  by  way  of  recuperating 


26O  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

after  the  unusual  exertions  of  the  day,  and  had  not  even 
heard  the  wheels. 

"  Go  and  find  out  at  once,"  said  Henderson,  decidedly. 
"  You  can  also  ask  to  have  Miss  Arkwright's  carriage 
brought  round."  He  returned  to  the  front  drawing- 
room,  and  a  moment  later  Pompey  appeared. 

"  Please,  Lieutenant  Henderson,  sar,  Miss  Arkwright's 
carriage  is  at  the  door,  sar." 

"  But  what  was  the  other  carriage  I  heard  ?" 

"  Oh,  as  fer  dat,  sar,  it  wore  Malachi,  and  he  say  he 
wore  obeying  orders,  but  he  comin'  to  explain,  sar." 

"  Oh,  that  is  all  right,"  said  Henderson,  in  a  relieved 
tone.  "  Tell  him  to  wait  until  I  have  seen  these  ladies 
to  their  carriage.  I  am  so  absurdly  apprehensive,"  he 
added,  in  a  low  tone,  as  he  offered  his  arm  to  Cynthia, 
"  that  I  make  mountains  out  of  mole-hills.  I  had  prob- 
ably given  some  direction  to  Malachi  which  I  have  en- 
tirely forgotten,  but  I  do  not  remember  telling  him  to 
go  out  with  the  coupe  after  Aunt  Sarah  assured  me  that 
you  were  unwilling  that  I  should  send  it  for  you." 

"  I  thought  your  hospitality  sufficiently  taxed  in  en- 
tertaining a  guest  so  unaccustomed  to  society,"  she 
answered  playfully,  and  then  added,  with  an  earnest  look, 
"  I  quite  understand  your  feeling  anxious,  but  cannot 
help  hoping  that  there  is  no  serious  cause  for  it.  The 
whole  matter,  whatever  it  may  be,  has  probably  been 
enormously  exaggerated  by  nervous  fear." 

"  You  are  always  kind  and  reassuring,"  responded 
Millard,  as  they  shook  hands  and  parted,  but  as  the 
carriage  drove  away  a  great  sense  of  gloom  seemed  to 
settle  down  upon  him.  He  mounted  the  steps  slowly, 
and  in  the  entry  met  old  Malachi,  followed  by  Teresa, 
his  wife's  maid. 

"  Well,  Malachi,  what  in  the  world  did  you  go  out 
with  the  carriage  for  ?" 

"  Please,  Lieutenant  Henderson,  sar,  I  wore  only  comin' 
back  from  de  railway-station." 

"  From  the  railway-station !  What  did  you  want 
there  ?" 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  26 1 

The  old  darky  became  suddenly  frightened,  and  looked 
with  dismay  towards  the  maid. 

"  Please,  sar,  here  is  Teresa,  sar,  wid  a  message  from 
Mis'  Henderson,"  he  said,  retreating  as  she  advanced. 

"  If  you  please,  Mr.  Henderson,"  said  Teresa,  briskly, 
"  Malachi  went  to  take  Mrs.  Henderson  to  the  train. 
You  don't  ever  tell  me  that  you  didn't  know  as  how 
her  mother  was  took  sick,  and  that  was  why  she  felt  so 
bad  before  dinner  ?" 

Henderson  had  turned  perfectly  white  at  the  mention 
of  his  wife's  name,  but  he  made  a  supreme  effort  at  self- 
control.  "  You  are  mistaken,"  he  said,  severely.  "  I 
knew  as  much  about  her  mother's  illness  as  Mrs.  Hen- 
derson herself,  but  I  did  not  intend  to  allow  her  to  make 
the  journey  alone.  Put  the  horses  in  the  carriage  again, 

Malachi ;  and  you,  Teresa,  pack  my  bag  at  once." 

*  *  *  *  #    '          *  # 

Meanwhile,  with  the  luck  which  often  seems  to  attend 
the  unfortunate,  Mrs.  Henderson  had  just  caught  the 
last  train  which  left  Dundaff  that  night,  and  it  chanced 
to  be  an  express  train  for  New  York.  On  arriving  in 
that  city  at  about  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  she  drove 
directly  to  a  drug-store  which  she  knew  of,  and  rousing 
the  sleepy  clerk,  to  whose  torpid  memory  she  was  also 
able  to  recall  herself,  she  succeeded  in  making  several 
purchases. 

She  then  gave  her  driver  the  name  of  the  hotel  which 
she  had  learned  from  Cynthia  Arkwright,  asked  to  see 
the  hotel  register,  and,  finding  the  name  of  Richard  Led- 
yard  in  it,  took  a  room  and  retired  for  a  few  hours,  yet 
not  to  sleep.  She  had  declined  any  refreshment,  but 
ordered  pen  and  ink  brought  up  from  the  office,  and, 
taking  off  her  veil  and  gloves,  sat  down  in  her  bonnet 
and  walking-dress,  without  even  removing  her  jacket  or 
her  boots,  or  seeming  conscious  of  bodily  weariness  or 
discomfort,  to  write  a  letter.  The  first  dim  light  of 
early  dawn,  infinitely  dreary  as  seen  through  dusty 
window-panes  across  the  narrow  hotel  court-yard,  still 
found  her  thus  engaged,  when  it  slipped  its  way  into 


262  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

the  lonely  room,  making  the  flaring  gaslight  look  red 
and  dim,  and  enhancing  the  ghost-like  pallor  of  the  anx- 
ious, absorbed  face  which  she  bent  above  her  letter  as 
she  still  wrote  on. 


CHAPTER   XXXIII. 

RICHARD  LEDYARD  had  not  gone  directly  to  New 
York  on  leaving  Dundaff.  He  had  taken  a  ticket  to  a 
station  half-way  between  Baltimore  and  Philadelphia 
that  served  as  a  junction  to  a  small  local  railway  on  which 
there  was  little  traffic.  He  was  thus  obliged  to  wait  for 
some  time  before  the  train  came  which  would  convey 
him  to  his  first  destination,  but  he  did  not  allow  himself 
to  be  any  longer  delayed  there  than  necessity  compelled, 
and  by  the  close  of  the  day  on  the  morning  of  which  he 
set  forth  on  his  journey  he  was  in  New  York. 

His  first  evening  was  spent  in  examining  the  registers 
and  questioning  the  stewards  of  the  principal  hotels  and 
most  fashionable  clubs  in  town.  Then  he  went  among 
the  studios  of  the  artists,  and  then  to  the  theatres,  for 
he  knew  the  man  he  sought,  although  an  artist  of  ac- 
knowledged ability,  had  been  engaged  in  painting  scenery, 
as  well  as  pictures,  before  his  disappearance ;  but  he 
heard  nothing  of  him  in  these  places.  In  short,  all  the 
exact  information  he  obtained  was  gained  the  first  even- 
ing, but  here  and  there  he  would  come  on  a  trace  of  the 
man's  recent  presence,  which  filled  him  with  the  hope  of 
finding  him,  and  just  as  he  had  been  on  the  point  of 
giving  up  the  quest,  he  received  a  note  telling  him  that 
several  letters  had  come  to  the  little  post-office  at  the 
village  he  had  visited,  addressed  to  the  man  he  was  look- 
ing for,  on  which  had  been  printed,  "  If  not  delivered 
within  ten  days,  return  to  Louis  Westlock,  Esq.,"  giving 
the  number  and  street  in  New  York. 

Now,  this  Louis  Westlock  was  a  well-known  artist,  but 
one  to  whom  Ledyard  had  not  thought  of  applying,  not 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  263 

being  aware  of  his  acquaintance  or  friendship,  whichever 
it  ^might  be,  with  the  artist  he  wished  to  find.  He  re- 
ceived the  note  on  Thursday  morning,  and  set  out  at 
once  for  Mr.  Westlock's  house,  but  learned,  to  his  cha- 
grin, that  he  was  out  of  town,  and  was  not  expected  back 
until  the  following  Saturday  afternoon. 

Ledyard  had  a  sharp  struggle  with  himself  between 
duty  and  inclination.  The  former  said  that  he  ought 
not  to  turn  away  when  just  on  the  scent  without  accom- 
plishing what  he  had  come  for ;  that  the  fact  that  this 
gentleman  knew  of  the  artist's  return,  and  of  his  inten- 
tion to  go  to  the  village  in  question,  pointed  to  the  strong 
probability  of  his  being  able  to  tell  where  he  might  be 
at  present.  Inclination,  on  the  other  hand,  said,  "  Give  it 
all  up ;  go  back  to  your  own  neglected  affairs.  Let  this 
poor,  foolish  woman  take  care  of  herself!  The  blame  of 
the  situation  is  nothing  to  you,  compared  to  her  part  in 
it.  Let  her  bear  it." 

It  is  not  necessary  to  say  which  voice  conquered, 
since  the  reader  knows  that  he  wrote  to  excuse  himself 
from  the  dinner-party  at  Fernwood,  the  invitation  to 
which  he  had  accepted,  albeit  under  a  false  impression. 

On  the  Friday  it  occurred  to  him  that  in  case  he 
should  obtain  a  clue  from  Mr.  Westlock,  the  following  of 
it  up  might  possibly  detain  him  over  the  next  night,  and 
he  looked  up  the  clerical  friend  of  whom  he  wrote  to 
Cynthia,  a  hard-working  man  who  had  taken  up  the 
disheartening  labor  in  the  lower  part  of  the  city  in  which 
Ledyard  himself  had  been  so  long  engaged. 

On  the  Saturday  afternoon  he  sought  Mr.  Westlock, 
but  was  told  that  his  return  was  postponed  until  evening, 
and  in  the  evening  went  again.  He  was  most  kindly 
received  and  most  courteously  entertained.  He,  how- 
ever, learned  that  Mr.  Westlock  knew  exactly  as  much 
as  he  himself  had  discovered  of  the  outward  movements 
of  his  man,  and  even  less  of  his  probable  motives.  They 
were  both  aware  that  he  had  arrived  by  the  New  York, 
Lackawanna  and  Western  Railroad  on  the  Friday  pre- 
vious ;  that  he  had  booked  himself  at  the  Fifth  Avenue 


264  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

Hotel,  where  he  had  had  interviews  with  a  number  of 
business-men,  and  received  several  packages  of  clothing 
from  tailors ;  that  he  had  spent  the  Sunday  at  the  very 
small,  unimportant  little  hamlet  which  Ledyard  had  vis- 
ited the  Monday  after ;  had  traversed  the  unfrequented 
railway,  by  means  of  a  return  ticket,  to  New  York,  and 
had  expressed  his  intention  of  remaining  in  town  for 
some  time,  until  he  should  have  succeeded  in  acquiring 
information  with  regard  to  a  matter  about  which  he  was 
exceedingly  troubled.  Besides  this,  Ledyard,  who  had 
gathered  so  much  from  the  person  living  in  the  little 
village  to  whom  the  traveller  had  imparted  his  intention, 
knew  that  the  one  idea  of  this  person  had  been  to  get  rid 
of  him  as  quickly  as  possible.  It  had  not  occurred  to 
her  that  it  might  be  a  matter  of  importance  to  find  him 
again,  and  she  had  not  asked,  therefore,  what  his  address 
would  be  in  New  York.  She  had  simply  endeavored  to 
give  him  no  information  which  she  could  possibly  with- 
hold, and  been  careful  not  to  let  him  imagine  that  she 
knew  anything  which  she  did  not  think  best  to  men- 
tion. 

It  thus  appeared  that  Ledyard  was  rather  better  in- 
formed than  Mr.  Westlock,  to  whom  he  only  imparted  a 
portion  of  what  he  knew  of  the  probable  intentions  of 
Mr.  Granby  Neil.  To  be  sure,  Mr.  Westlock  had  seen 
Mr.  Neil,  which  Ledyard  had  not,  and  he  was  certain 
that  he  expected  to  be  in  New  York  that  week,  but  why 
he  had  not  come,  or  where  he  had  gone,  he  could  not 
tell. 

They  were  both  of  them  ignorant  of  his  life-long 
friendship  with  Millard  Henderson,  as  well  as  of  his  old 
comradeship  with  Dr.  Danforth,  so  that  the  idea  of  his 
turning  his  footsteps  in  the  direction  of  Dundaff  never 
presented  itself,  even  to  Richard,  much  less  did  he  im- 
agine that  on  the  day  after  he  started  on  his  quest  the 
man  he  sought  was  safely  ensconced  in  Dr.  Danforth's 
spare  bedroom,  where  he  had  made  a  special  request 
that  he  might  be  allowed  to  remain  for  a  day  or  two 
in  absolute  seclusion,  until  he  had  recovered  from  th*» 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  26$ 

fatigue  of  body  and  mind  which  he  had  recently  under- 
gone. 

As  it  was,  Ledyard  was  profoundly  discouraged.  It 
was  too  late  then  to  catch  a  train  that  night  for  Dundaff; 
besides  that,  his  friend  and  substitute  was  already  on  the 
way  thither,  dreaming,  no  doubt,  of  green  fields  and  the 
delight  of  preaching  to  an  independent  congregation. 
On  one  thing  Richard  was  resolved,  however,  let  Mrs. 
Henderson's  troubles  be  what  they  might,  that  he  would 
not  break  his  promise  of  being  present  at  the  afternoon 
service  and  miss  preaching  to  the  people  in  the  woods 
on  the  morrow.  Indeed,  he  fell  asleep  thinking  of  all  he 
would  say  to  them,  and  planning  how  he  would  rise  be- 
times and  be  ready  for  an  early  start  for  home.  He  was 
still  in  a  state  of  anticipation  when  he  awoke.  The  day 
broke  clear,  and  he  determined  to  go  home  as  quickly  as 
he  could.  Of  course  it  was  hard  to  feel  that  all  his  time 
and  trouble  since  he  left  there  had  gone  for  nothing,  but 
he  knew  that  he  had  done  his  best,  and  to  one  of  his 
temperament  this  was  something. 

Thus,  in  spite  of  the  dislike  of  giving  up  anything  that 
he  had  once  undertaken,  which  was  also  a  part  of  his 
,  nature,  he  was  almost  cheerful  at  the  prospect  of  getting 
away  from  the  gloomy  thoughts  and  memories  that  had 
oppressed  him  since  he  started  on  this  self-imposed 
mission,  and  of  once  more  returning  to  the  hopes  and 
interests  of  the  new  life  at  Dundaff  which  seemed  open- 
ing before  him. 

He  was  not  prepared  for  the  shock  that  awaited  him 
when,  just  as  he  had  finished  his  toilet  on  the  Sunday 
morning,  he  answered  a  faint  and  hasty  rap  at  the  door, 
to  find  Mrs.  Millard  Henderson  standing  before  him. 


266  BROKEN  CHORDS. 


CHAPTER   XXXIV. 

"  POSEY  !"  he  exclaimed.     "  What  does  this  mean  ?" 

"  Please  don't  be  angry  with  me,  Dick." 

"  Not  be  angry,  when  you  have  done  such  a  thing  as 
this !  What  has  induced  you  to  come  to  New  York  ? 
Where  is  your  husband  ?  What  do  you  want  ?" 

It  was  impossible  for  him  to  help  speaking  impatiently 
and  somewhat  indignantly,  so  great  and  sudden  were 
the  surprise  and  disappointment  of  her  unexpected  ap- 
pearance ;  but  a  moment  later  he  repented  of  his  harsh- 
ness, for  instead  of  rendering  some  pert  or  incisive  an- 
swer, as  was  her  wont,  her  lips  began  to  quiver  at  the 
mention  of  her  husband,  and  then  her  whole  face  became 
convulsed  with  uncontrollable  agony.  She  raised  her 
hands  to  hide  it,  and  would  have  sunk  upon  the  floor 
in  a  passion  of  weeping  if  he  had  not  caught  and  sup- 
ported her  to  a  chair.  Just  as  he  was  doing  so,  a  colored 
waiter  passed  along  the  entry,  paused  before  the  open 
door,  and,  staring  curiously  into  the  room,  asked,  impu- 
dently,— 

"  Did  you  ring,  sir  ?" 

"  I  did  not,  but  I  should  like  a  glass  of  water  for  this 
lady.  She  has  been  travelling  all  night,  I  fear,  and  is 
very  much  exhausted." 

"  Yes,  sir,  directly,  sir,"  returned  the  negro. 

"  You  can't  fool  me  so  easy,"  he  said  to  himself,  with 
a  knowing  grin,  as  he  walked  off.  "  Dat's  de  berry  lady 
dat  arrived  here  at  half-past  three  dis  morning  and  took 
a  room  in  de  nex'  corridor,  for  it  was  me  dat  showed  her 
to  it,  and  I  ain't  bin  a  night  porter  dees  two  years  for 
noffing." 

Ledyard  paid  little  heed  to  the  man  or  to  his  muttering; 
he  was  distressed  beyond  measure  at  the  evidently  de- 
spairing grief  of  the  poor  little  lady,  who  lay  speechless 
with  sorrow  in  the  large  arm-chair  in  which  he  had  placed 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  26j 

her,  her  whole  body  trembling  and  shaking  with  the  force 
of  the  great  sobs  which  seemed  to  tear  her  very  heart. 

"  What  is  it?  why,  what  is  the  matter,  my  poor,  poor 
Posey?"  he  asked,  with  a  clumsy  attempt  to  smooth  the 
hand  which  lay  apathetically  at  her  side ;  but  she  did  not 
answer,  indeed,  he  saw  plainly  that  she  could  not,  until 
the  paroxysm  of  her  grief  had  expended  itself.  He  took 
a  turn  up  and  down  the  room,  as  was  his  wont  when 
much  concerned  or  absorbed  in  thought,  while  all  the 
possible  complications  which  could  have  arisen  chased 
one  another  rapidly  through  his  mind. 

At  last  Posey  seemed  to  have  sobbed  herself  out,  and, 
wiping  her  tear-stained  eyes,  leaned  back  in  the  chair, 
with  her  sad  gaze  fixed  on  Ledyard,  looking  more  dead 
than  alive.  "  You  ask  me  what  I  want,"  she  said  in  the 
tone  of  a  forlorn  child  who  believes,  because  it  may 
have  suffered  some  trivial  disappointment,  that  there  is 
no  hope  left  in  life ;  but  Ledyard  knew  that  the  cause 
of  Mrs.  Henderson's  distress  was  not  trivial.  "  You  ask 
me  what  I  want,  and  I  have  nothing  to  tell  you ;  there  is 
nothing  left  for  me  to  want.  I  came  to  you  thinking 
you  might  help  me,  but  I  see  you  cannot,  and  there  is 
no  one  else  who  can." 

Ledyard  went  close  to  her  again  and  laid  his  hand 
upon  her  head,  as  he  had  a  way  of  doing  when  he  was 
sorry  for  her.  "  You  do  not  know  yet,  dear,"  he  said, 
gently,  "  whether  I  can  help  you  or  not.  If  you  wish  for 
my  help  you  must  tell  me  all  that  has  happened." 

"  Granby  Neil  has  come  back." 

"  Yes,  I  knew  that  he  had." 

"  And  you  never  told  me  ?" 

"  I  wanted  to  save  you  the  pain  of  knowing,  it  if  I 
could.  The  truth  is  that  I  came  here  to  New  York  in 
the  hope  of  seeing  him  and  making  him  understand 
how  things  were.  I  felt  sure  if  he  once  knew  all  he 
would  not  think  of  confronting  you,  or  proclaiming  that 
which  could  only  make  your  life  wretched ;  but  I  have 
not  been  able  to  find  him.  How  did  you  hear  of  his 
return  ?  Do  you  know  where  he  is  ?" 


268  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

"  He  is  in  Dundaff."  Posey  shuddered  as  she  an- 
swered. "  Last  night  he  was  at  Fernwood." 

"  At  Fernwood  !     Then  you  have  seen  him  ?" 

"  I  have  seen  him,  but  he  has  not  seen  me." 

Mrs.  Henderson  proceeded  to  narrate  the  incidents  of 
the  previous  evening,  only  omitting  to  mention,  whether 
from  indifference  or  from  design,  the  finding  of  her  note 
to  Ledyard  by  Henderson,  and  his  demand  of  an  ex- 
planation in  consequence. 

She  had  never  for  a  moment  forgotten  that  she  had 
promised  him  an  explanation,  but  it  may  be  that  in  the 
midst  of  all  her  other  trouble  the  precise  event  which 
led  to  his  desiring  it  did  slip  her  memory.  When  she 
had  ended,  Richard  looked  at  his  watch.  He  did  not 
again  exclaim  over  her  want  of  judgment  and  patience 
in  thus  flying,  although  he  was  petrified  with  her  rash- 
ness upon  learning  that  she  had  left  home  without  her 
husband's  knowledge.  He  felt  that  all  depended  on 
her  retaining  the  calmness  which  she  had  gradually  re- 
gained ;  for  to  act,  and  act  quickly,  offered  the  only  hope 
of  attaining  her  safety  and  his  most  cherished  wish. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  kindly  but  decidedly,  "  there  is  only 
one  thing  to  do.  You  must  come  down  with  me  and 
eat  some  breakfast,  so  as  to  be  in  a  fit  condition  to  travel, 
which  at  present  you  are  not ;  and  then  you  must  let 
me  take  you  and  leave  you  with  your  mother,  or  put 
you  in  the  way  of  going  to  her,  while  I  push  directly 
on  to  Dundaff.  If  there  be  any  hope  at  all  of  per- 
suading your  husband  to  see  the  matter  in  an  extenu- 
ating light,  it  must  be  by  my  getting  there  before  any 
further  explanation  takes  place  between  Henderson  and 
Neil ;  for,  from  what  you  say,  it  appears  that  by  some 
miraculous  chance  Miss  Arkwright  has  been  able  to  pre- 
vent Neil  from  finding  out  who  you  were,  and  if  I  can  only 
get  there  and  tell  him  all  that  he  should  know,  some 
alleviation  might  be  thought  of.  At  least  he  will  wish 
that  Henderson  should  be  made  to  understand,  if  he 
cannot  forgive." 

"  Do  you  really  think  so  ?" 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  269 

"  I  am  sure  of  it." 

Posey  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief.  "  Dear  Dick,  you 
have  a  kind  heart  after  all !"  she  said,  impulsively,  "  and 
I  cannot  help  hoping  you  may  be  able  to  do  some  good, 
Dick." 

It  became  less  difficult  after  this  to  induce  her  to  do 
as  he  desired.  They  went  down-stairs,  and  took  a  hasty 
breakfast  in  the  hotel  restaurant.  Ledyard  paid  her  bill 
and  his  own  without  a  thought,  and,  driving  rapidly 
to  the  ferry,  they  reached  Jersey  City  just  in  time  to 
catch  the  through  train  for  Washington,  on  which  all 
Ledyard's  hopes  of  reaching  Dundaff,  at  the  hour  he 
had  promised,  were  staked. 

It  was  not  until  they  were  actually  in  the  train  that 
another  distracting  doubt  seemed  to  force  itself  upon 
Posey. 

"  You  did  not  mean  that  you  would  speak  to  Mr. 
Henderson  yourself,  Dick  ?"  she  asked,  anxiously. 

"  Yes.     I  see  nothing  else  to  do." 

"  But  suppose  Granby  Neil  could  be  induced  to  go 
away  quietly  and  make  no  further  trouble  ?" 

"  That  was  what  I  had  hoped,  Posey.  It  seemed  to 
me  that  if  you  did  not  know  of  his  return  this  might  be 
managed ;  and  your  mother  thought  so  too ;  but  now, 
what  good  would  it  do  ?" 

"  What  good  ?  Why,  every  good  !"  she  exclaimed, 
vehemently.  "  Where  did  you  see  mother  ?" 

"At  Dunstable.  She  it  was  who  received  a  letter 
from  Neil  announcing  his  return,  and  wrote  at  once  to 
ask  me  if  something  could  not  be  done  to  prevent  him 
from  making  trouble  for  you.  You  must  have  written 
her,  by  the  bye,  Posey,  of  your  interview  with  me  in  which 
you  told  me  of  your  marriage,  for  she  referred  to  that." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  had  written  her  of  it,  of  course,"  returned 
Posey,  coloring  slightly.  "  Indeed,  she  advised  me  the 
last  time  I  was  with  her  to  seek  an  opportunity  of  speak- 
ing to  you  as  soon  as  I  went  home.  Do  you  not  re- 
member that  I  had  just  returned  from  Dunstable  the 
day  you  lunched  at  Fernwood  ?" 

23* 


2/O  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

"  To  be  sure,  and  you  were  too  tired  to  come  down  to 
luncheon." 

"  I  could  not  risk  your  recognizing  me  before  Millard ; 
but  go  on  with  what  you  were  telling  me  about  the  letter 
from  Granby  Neil." 

"  He  said  in  it  that  shortness  of  money  had  obliged 
him  to  take  the  place  of  a  brakeman  and  work  his  way 
on  a  freight  train  from  St.  Paul,  so  that,  knowing  how 
slow  those  trains  are,  I  hoped  he  could  not  reach  this 
part  of  the  world  for  some  time  after  the  letter ;  but  when 
I  got  to  Dunstable,  I  found  by  the  post-mark -that  his 
letter  had  also  been  delayed,  so  that,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
he  arrived  there  three  days  after  it  did,  and  he  left  there 
the  day  before  I  arrived." 

"  How  too  provoking !" 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  very  great  pity,  for  could  you  have  been 
kept  in  ignorance  of  his  return  from  the  dead,  and  all 
that  it  menaces,  you  could  have  lived  on  peacefully, — 
that  is,  provided  you  had  told  the  truth  to  Henderson, 
as  I  urged  you  to  do." 

"  Then  Millard  would  have  had  to  be  kept  ignorant  too 
of  Neil's  return." 

"  Certainly  he  would.  There  would  have  been  no 
wrong  in  that  if  Neil  consented,  whereas  now " 

"  Now,  Millard  must  not  know  anything/"  cried  she. 

Ledyard's  brow  grew  stern.  "  Do  not  misunderstand 
me,"  he  said,  severely.  "  As  soon  as  I  have  seen  Neil  I 
shall  seek  out  Millard  Henderson." 

"You  mean  that  you  will  tell  him  all?"  asked  Posey, 
who  had  grown  deadly  pale. 

"  All  that  there  is  left  to  tell  him." 

"  But  when  I  came  from  home  he  knew  nothing"  pro- 
tested Mrs.  Henderson.  "  If  Mr.  Neil  can  be  induced  to 
keep  silent,"  she  added,  pleadingly,  "  why  need  Millard 
be  told?" 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  had  not  told  him  of 
my  part  in  the  matter  ?  Did  you  actually  allow  your 
husband  to  ask  me  to  dinner  without  knowing  who  I 
was  ?"  asked  Ledyard,  incredulously. 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  2/1 

"  Oh,  Dick,  don't  be  angry !  I  wanted  to  speak,  but  I 
had  not  the  courage." 

"And  then  you  left  home  without  his  knowledge,  and 
you  came  to  me — for  counsel !"  continued  Richard,  in  a 
tone  of  bitter  condemnation.  "  Of  what  avail  was  all  the 
counsel  I  had  given  you  before,  if  this  is  the  way  you 
have  followed  it?" 

Posey  said  nothing  this  time.  She  had  drawn  her 
veil  closely  over  her  face  and  turned  from  him  towards 
the  window.  They  chanced  to  be  passing  over  a  par- 
ticularly dreary  waste  of  country.  It  was  perhaps  in 
harmony  with  the  brief  little  wasted  life  which  she  was 
contemplating.  At  last,  when  they  had  traversed  some 
fifty  miles  in  silence,  she  turned  on  him  a  countenance 
which  seemed  even  through  the  folds  of  the  veil  to  have 
grown  rigid  and  hard. 

"  You  are  determined,  then,  that  you  will  see  my  hus- 
band ?"  she  asked,  in  a  changed  voice. 

"  Yes,  I  intend  to  see  Lieutenant  Henderson." 

"  And  you  are  determined  to  tell  him  everything  ?" 

"  I  am." 

"  In  that  case,"  she  said,  opening  the  travelling-bag 
which  lay  at  her  feet  and  drawing  from  it  an  envelope 
containing  a  thickly-folded  paper,  "you  had  better  give 
him  this  letter  when  you  see  him.  It  will  save  you 
some  words  and  him  some  trouble." 

Ledyard  took  the  package  from  her  in  surprise.  It 
was  addressed  to  "  Millard  Henderson,  Esq.,"  and  care- 
fully sealed.  A  kind  of  fear  came  over  him,  when  he 
had  put  it  safely  away  in  his  breast-pocket,  as  to  whether 
the  poor  little  woman  were  really  in  possession  of  all 
her  senses,  her  face  continued  to  look  so  white  and  fixed, 
while  to  all  his  questions  after  this  she  gave  but  the 
shortest  possible  answers. 

At  the  small  way-station  which  served  as  a  junction 
for  the  trains  to  D unstable  he  parted  with  Mrs.  Hen- 
derson, enjoining  her  the  last  thing  to  be  sure  to  tele- 
graph to  her  husband  of  her  whereabouts  as  soon  as  she 
reached  home.  She  smiled  rather  strangely,  but  gave 


2/2  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

no  promise.  Yet  she  waved  him  a  farewell,  and  the  last 
he  saw  of  her  as  the  express  sped  out  of  the  station  was 
standing  looking  steadily  after  the  receding  train. 


CHAPTER   XXXV. 

ANXIOUS  as  Nathalie  had  been  for  an  opportunity  of 
talking  to  Cynthia,  there  was  little  said  between  the  two 
sisters  on  their  way  home  in  the  carriage.  It  was  not 
until  they  were  fairly  in  the  cottage,  and  Nathalie  had 
stirred  up  the  embers  of  the  dying  wood-fire  and  Cyn- 
thia had  lighted  the  lamp  in  the  cosey  little  parlor,  that 
the  spirit  moved  either  of  them  to  express  the  thoughts 
which  occupied  the  minds  of  both. 

"  Cynthia,"  said  Nathalie,  coming  close  to  her  sister 
and  playing  abstractedly  with  the  diamond  pin  in  front 
of  her  dress,  "  did  you  see  that  note  ?  What  could  it 
have  meant?" 

"  How  did  you  happen  to  see  it,  Nathalie  ?" 

"  Why,  after  dinner  Florry  Betterton  and  I  were  talk- 
ing of  Mr.  Neil  and  his  wonderful  escape  from  the 
Indians  that  he  had  been  telling  Mrs.  Pelham  about, 
and  little  Wilfred,  who  had  been  sitting  beside  his  aunt 
listening  with  all  his  eyes  and  ears  to  the  story  of  adven- 
ture, came  over  to  me  and  asked  me  if  I  had  ever  seen 
a  tomahawk  such  as  Mr.  Neil  said  the  Indians  used  to 
scalp  people  with. 

"  I  said  I  had  seen  one  in  a  museum,  and  then  he 
wanted  to  know  what  they  looked  like,  and  Florence 
tried  to  describe  one  to  him,  but  I  said  that  if  he  would 
get  me  a  bit  of  paper  I  would  draw  him  a  picture  of 
one. 

"  Wilfred  was  delighted  and  very  eager.  We  looked 
about  for  some  paper,  but  there  seemed  not  to  be  any 
in  the  drawing-room,  when  suddenly  he  exclaimed, — 

" '  I  know  where  there  is  a  bit  of  paper !'  and,  opening 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  2/3 

one  of  those  Mount  Desert  baskets  with  a  cover  to  it, 
which  seemed  to  be  used  for  cards  of  visitors,  he  pulled 
out  a  three-cornered  note  from  under  the  cards  and 
began  unfolding  it. 

"  '  Why,  what  are  you  doing,  dear  ?'  I  asked. 

"  '  Nathalie !'  exclaimed  Florence  at  the  same  moment, 
'  that  note  is  addressed  to  Mr.  Ledyard.' 

" '  Of  course  it  is,'  said  Wilfred,  with  an  air  of  supe- 
riority. '  I  knew  that,  but  it  is  no  good,  for  Mr.  Led- 
yard was  away  when  mamma  sent  it  to  him,  and  so  I 
had  to  bring  it  back,  because  she  told  me  not  to  give  it 
into  any  one's  hands  but  his.' 

"  I  tried  to  stop  him  at  this  point  by  nodding  my  head, 
as  much  as  to  say  that  that  was  enough,  but  the  little 
fellow  would  not  be  silenced. 

" '  I  should  think  I  ought  to  know  about  it,'  he  con- 
tinued, in  his  high,  piping  voice,  '  for  it  was  I  that  rode 
to  the  village  with  the  note,  and  all  the  way  to  Mr.  Led- 
yard's  house,  quite  alone.' 

"  Florence  looked  at  me  meaningly,  but  we  had  no 
words,  as  just  then  Dr.  Danforth  came  up  and  claimed 
her  attention,  while  Lieutenant  Henderson,  who  entered 
at  the  same  moment,  crossed  the  room  in  our  direction 
and  asked  Wilfred  carelessly  what  he  was  saying  about 
Mr.  Ledyard. 

"  The  boy  repeated  his  explanation,  ending  by  begging 
me  to  draw  the  tomahawk,  as  I  had  promised,  on  the 
paper,  which  he  was  sure  was  '  no  good/  and  spreading 
out  the  note  on  my  knee  as  he  did  so.  I  could  not  help 
seeing  the  words  '  Dear  Dick'  at  the  top  of  the  page, 
although,  of  course,  I  read  no  more,  but  I  was  confident 
that  Mr.  Henderson  had  seen  them,  too,  for  he  seized 
the  note  suddenly  and  put  it  in  his  pocket,  saying  some- 
thing to  Wilfred  about  that  not  being  the  way  to  treat 
mamma's  notes,  and  then,  apologizing  to  me  for  his  inter- 
ference, told  Wilfred  that  it  was  time  for  him  to  go  to 
bed,  with  a  very  white,  stern  face,  and,  taking  him  by  the 
hand,  led  him  from  the  room. 

"  It  all  took  place  so  quickly  that  there  was  no  time 


2/4  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

to  think,  and  gave  me  a  dreadful  feeling,  as  if  some 
catastrophe  were  about  to  happen.  I  stole  one  glance  at 
Florry,  who  was  still  sitting  near,  and  met  my  gaze  with 
a  hard  look,  which  I  could  not  mistake.  It  was  evident 
to  me  that  she  too  had  read  those  words,  and  had  no- 
ticed Mr.  Henderson's  change  of  manner,  but  the  worst 
of  it  was,  Cynthia,  that  her  eyes  were  so  severe !  Do 
you  suppose  that  by  this  petty  little  incident  she  could 
be  made  to  believe  Mrs.  Betterton  was  right  in  all  those 
dreadful  things  she  said  about  Mr.  Ledyard  and  Mrs. 
Henderson?" 

"  Well,  I  suppose  she  might,"  Cynthia  admitted,  with 
a  troubled  look. 

"  Cynthia !"  exclaimed  Nathalie,  fiercely,  "you  do  not 
think  so  ?" 

"  No,  I  do  not." 

"  I  knew  you  could  not.  I  feel  like  never  speaking  to 
Florence  Betterton  again  !  I  hate  suspicious  people." 

"  But,  Nathalie,  why  do  you  take  up  this  matter  in 
such  a  personal  way,  dear  ?  What  is  it  to  you  ?" 

Nathalie  colored  crimson,  suddenly  withdrew  from  her 
sister's  side,  and  was  silent.  Cynthia  looked  anxiously 
after  her,  but  her  face  was  averted  on  pretence  of  unfast- 
ening the  clasp  of  her  cloak  before  the  long,  low,  old- 
fashioned  mirror  which  hung  over  the  mantel-shelf  across 
the  chimney.  She  could  only  see  her  reflection  lit  up 
by  the  fire-light,  the  glow  of  which  might  perhaps 
account  for  some  of  the  color  which  appeared  to  mantle 
her  cheeks  and  brow,  but  could  not  be  responsible  for 
the  quivering  eyelid  of  the  downcast  eye  which  Cynthia 
saw  in  profile,  the  dilated  nostril,  or  the  proud  curve  of 
the  usually  placid  mouth. 

"  Never  mind  answering  my  question,  dear,"  said  Cyn- 
thia, in  an  altered  tone,  which  was  infinitely  gentle.  "  I 
should  not  have  asked  it  but  that  I  have  been  so- torn 
with  apprehension  as  to  what  it  might  be  my  duty  to 
do  in  this  matter."  She  sat  down,  as  she  spoke,  on  a 
low  chair  beside  the  fire,  and  leaned  her  face  upon  her 
hand. 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  2/5 

Nathalie  sat  down,  too,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
fireplace.  "  I  do  not  understand  what  matter  you  refer 
to,"  she  said,  stiffly. 

"  Well,  dear,  a  great  deal  has  happened  this  evening 
which  I  could  not  explain  to  myself.  It  is  most  of  it  no 
affair  of  mine  or  yours,  but  I  feel  as  if  I  ought  to  say 
one  thing  to  you,  my  little  sister,  and  that  is  this.  I  have 
only  known  Mr.  Ledyard  since  he  came  to  Dundaff, 
about  six  months  ago.  I  know  nothing  of  his  past  his- 
tory, of  what  influences  he  may  have  been  subjected  to, 
of  what  temptations  he  may  have  had  to  contend  with. 
I  only  know  that  he  has  impressed  me  as  a  man  of  un- 
usually pure  and  good  impulses  and  of  noble  aspirations, 
so  that  I  find  it  very  difficult  to  doubt  his  truth  or  ques- 
tion his  integrity;  but,  Nathalie,  such  men  have  been 
known,  often  and  often,  in  moments  of  weakness,  to  be 
unworthy  of  their  better  selves." 

"  And  why  do  you  say  this  to  me  ?"  asked  Nathalie, 
proudly. 

"  Because,  dear,  when  you  first  were  with  me  you  were 
constantly  in  Mr.  Ledyard's  society,  and  your  judgment 
of  him,  both  then  and  now,  may  unconsciously  have 
been  affected  by  the  high  opinion  of  his  character  which 
you  could  hardly  fail  to  see  that  I  entertained." 

"  Well,  suppose  that  it  were,  Cynthia?"  responded  Na- 
thalie, a  gleam  of  humor  relieving  the  constrained 
expression  which  her  face  had  worn  since  the  question 
was  asked,  to  which  she  had  not  been  able  to  find  an 
answer. 

But  Cynthia  looked  graver  than  ever.  "  Suppose  it 
were,  Nathalie,"  she  said,  "  and  suppose  you  were  to 
find  that  I  had  been  mistaken  ?" 

"  I  would  much  rather  that  were  so  than  to  have  sus- 
pected all  sorts  of  horrid  things  of  a  person  who  was 
loyal  and  deserved  to  be  trusted  !"  returned  Nathalie, 
hotly. 

Before  she  answered,  Cynthia  rose  from  her  seat  and 
walked  slowly  across  the  room  to  a  little  writing-desk 
which  stood  in  one  corner  of  the  parlor.  This  she 


2/6  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

unlocked,  and  took  from  it  a  box  containing  a  small,  old« 
fashioned  gold  locket,  made  in  the  shape  of  a  heart. 
Unclasping  it,  she  approached  Nathalie,  and,  passing  her 
arm  round  her  sister,  showed  her  the  open  locket  on 
her  extended  palm. 

"  That  is  the  hair  of  a  man  whom  I  believed  deserved 
to  be  trusted,  Nathalie,  but  I  found  that  trustworthy  as 
he  was  to  me,  he  had  not  been  so  to  others.  I  was, 
therefore,  deceived  in  him." 

Nathalie,  to  whom  Cynthia's  love-story  was  quite  un- 
known, and  who  had  accepted  the  tale  told  by  her  half- 
sisters,  of  how  Cynthia  never  cared  for  any  man,  or  took 
any  pleasure  in  society,  in  spite  of  all  the  attention  she 
received,  but  thought  only  of  a  convent  and  of  forsaking 
the  world,  was  profoundly  astonished.  In  the  family  it 
had  not  been  thought  well  to  canvass  Cynthia's  short 
engagement,  as  such  a  process  would  only  have  con- 
cluded with  the  statement  of  fact  which  was  common 
among  her  casual  acquaintances, — that  Miss  Arkwright, 
who  had  been  driven  into  the  entanglement  through  un- 
congenialitywith  her  step-mother,  had  jilted  Mr.  Hender- 
son because  she  preferred  a  cloister  to  a  loveless  marriage. 

Nathalie  distinctly  remembered  Millard  as  one  of  the 
visitors  at  the  house  during  her  childhood,  but  she 
hardly  distinguished  him  from  any  of  Cynthia's  other 
admirers,  and  was  far  from  associating  the  sunny  wisp 
of  hair  in  the  locket  with  his  much  darker  locks,  already 
beginning  to  grow  slightly  grizzled  with  care  and  ad- 
vancing years. 

She  took  Cynthia's  hand  gently  in  hers  and  looked 
long  and  reverently  at  this  relic  of  the  hope  and  the  faith 
of  her  youth.  Then  she  kissed  the  hand. 

"  Thank  you,  dear,"  was  all  she  said,  while  Cynthia 
hid  away  her  treasure,  and  without  more  words  they 
parted  for  the  night. 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  2// 


CHAPTER   XXXVI. 

PERHAPS  neither  sister  slept  very  well.  Each  may 
have  been  visited  by  more  or  less  disturbing  thoughts 
that  night.  The  noise  of  the  birds  beginning  to  chirp 
and  twitter  in  the  garden  fell  faintly  upon  Cynthia's  ears 
at  break  of  day,  and  then  another  noise,  quite  a  distinct 
one,  which  caused  her  to  start  up  on  her  elbow  and 
listen  anxiously.  There  it  was  again  !  It  was  the  sound 
of  knocking  on  the  cottage  door. 

Hastily  wrapping  herself  in  a  shawl,  Cynthia  threw 
open  the  front  window  of  her  bedchamber,  and,  looking 
down,  dimly  beheld  the  figure  of  a  man  standing  under 
the  shadow  of  the  veranda  roof,  with  a  travelling-bag  in 
his  hand.  She  believed  she  recognized  the  figure  even 
before  he  said,  "  Is  that  Miss  Arkwright  ?"  in  a  voice 
which  she  would  have  known  anywhere,  under  any  cir- 
cumstances, however  unexpected.  It  was  surely  Millard 
Henderson's  voice,  in  spite  of  a  tone  of  strained  impa- 
tience, which  was  unfamiliar. 

"  I  want  very  much  to  speak  to  you,"  he  continued. 
"  Can  you  come  down  without  delay  ?  There  are  only 
twenty  minutes  before  I  must  leave  to  catch  my  train." 

"  Certainly,"  she  replied ;  "  I  will  be  with  you  in  a  few 
minutes." 

Why  was  Millard  going  away,  and  where?  Every 
species  of  anxious  doubt  which  her  imagination  was 
capable  of  forming  swept  through  it  while  she  was 
dressing.  Yet  when,  her  hasty  toilet  ended,  she  opened 
the  cottage  door  to  admit  Henderson,  she  was  still  un- 
prepared for  the  news  he  brought  or  for  the  look  of 
misery  in  his  face. 

To  be  told  that  the  instant  her  husband  had  left  her 
Mrs.  Henderson  had  taken  flight  was  a  worse  blow  than 
Cynthia  anticipated  ;  but  the  worst  part  of  it  was  a  fear 
which  darted  through  her  lest  the  bit  of  information  that 

24 


278  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

Posey  had  begged  so  hard,  and  which  she  had  yielded  to 
the  unhappy  woman's  persuasion,  might  have  influenced 
her  determination  or  her  destination. 

Without  knowing  what  was  passing  in  her  thoughts, 
Henderson  said,  "  I  came  to  see  you,  Miss  Arkwright, 
before  starting  in  search  of  my  wife,  because  my  aunt, 
Mrs.  Pelham,  suggested  that  you  were  with  her  so  much 
last  evening  after  her  strange  and  sudden  indisposition 
as  possibly  to  be  able  to  suggest  some  clue  to  her  leav- 
ing her  home,  or  to  the  direction  in  which  she  may  have 
turned  her  steps.  There  are  two  suppositions  :  one  held 
by  my  aunt  and  the  servants,  that  she  has  gone  to  her 
mother,  and  another,  most  reluctantly  entertained  by 
me,  that  she  has  gone  elsewhere.  I  should  not  be  spec- 
ulating here  on  the  subject  if  there  had  been  any  way 
by  which  I  could  leave  Dundaff  last  night  in  order  to 
follow  her,  you  may  well  imagine,  but  when  I  arrived  at 
the  station  the  last  train  had  gone,  and,  as  I  learned  to 
my  despair,  Mrs.  Henderson  had  gone  in  it !  It  was  an 
express  train  from  Washington  to  New  York,  but  I 
gathered  from  the  station-master  that  the  fastest  trains 
are  obliged  to  stop  for  a  flag  or  to  drop  off  a  passenger 
at  the  junction  from  which  she  could  have  changed  cars 
for  her  mother's  house.  I,  of  course,  intend  to  take  the 
first  morning  train,  which  happens  also  to  meet  an  ex- 
press from  Washington  to  New  York,  and  the  question 
is  whether  I  am  or  am  not  to  get  off  at  the  junction  I 
mention.  If  I  should  do  so,  and  my  wife  should  not 
prove  to  be  at  Dunstable,  I  shall  have  lost  four  or  five 
hours.  If  I  push  on,  and  she  should  not  have  gone  to 
New  York,  I  am  equally  thwarted ;  besides  that,  I  have 
no  idea  where  to  search  for  her  in  that  city.  Every  way 
I  look  is  uncertainty  and  disgrace."  He  sank  down  in  a 
chair  before  the  dead  embers  of  the  burned-out  fire  in 
Cynthia's  little  parlor,  clasping  his  hands  above  his  head, 
and  staring  at  the  wall  in  front  of  him  with  a  sort  of 
dull  despair.  Cynthia  could  not  but  feel  the  profoundest 
sympathy  for  his  distress,  but  she  saw  that  what  he 
needed  was  not  compassion,  but  counsel. 


BROKEN  CHORDS. 

"  Has  Mrs.  Henderson  any  relative  in  New  York  to 
whom  you  could  telegraph  ?"  she  asked.  "  Have  you 
thought  of  telegraphing  to  Dunstable  ?" 

Millard  shook  his  head.  "  Her  aunt  in  New  York  is 
dead,"  he  replied.  "  I  sent  a  message  to  Dunstable  last 
night,  but  have  received  no  answer  from  her  mother,  and, 
knowing  the  leisurely  way  in  which  telegrams  are  deliv- 
ered in  country  places,  have  very  little  hope  of  doing  so 
before  I  start.  Will  you  tell  me,"  he  continued,  looking 
up  at  her  earnestly,  "  whether  the  supposition  that  my 
wife's  mind  may  have  been  affected  since  the  blow  on 
her  head  at  the  time  of  her  accident  seems  to  you  pos- 
sible ?" 

"It  seems  very  possible,"  she  returned,  "although  I 
cannot  say  that  it  has  before  occurred  to  me.  Has  such 
an  idea  been  suggested  to  you  before  now  ?" 

"  Again  and  again.  She  has  been  very  unlike  her- 
self, as  I  told  my  aunt  last  night.  Mrs.  Pelham  is  in- 
clined to  believe  that  Posey  cannot  be  responsible  for  all 
she  does  and  says,  but  Aunt  Sarah  has  not  seen  her  note 
to  Mr.  Ledyard,  which  is  capable  of  two  interpretations. 
Tell  me  frankly,  for  heaven's  sake,  have  you  formed  to 
yourself  any  other  theory  to  account  for  that  or  for  her 
going  away?" 

Thus  questioned,  Cynthia  felt  in  a  most  painful  posi- 
tion ;  her  conscience  and  her  inclination  both  bade  her 
help  Millard  in  any  way  she  could  honorably,  but  to 
betray  a  confidence,  especially  that  of  an  utterly  help- 
less person  who  had  cast  herself  upon  her  mercy,  was 
antagonistic  to  her  whole  nature.  True,  she  had  refused 
to  promise  secrecy  with  regard  to  what  Mrs.  Henderson 
was  about  to  tell  her  of  Mr.  Neil,  and  had  not  been  told 
all  that  otherwise  would  have  been  confided  to  her  on 
this  account,  but  she  had  given  Posey  to  understand 
that  she  would  not  speak  of  what  she  did  trust  to  her 
without  warning.  She  therefore  determined  to  say  noth- 
ing of  Mrs.  Henderson's  fear  of  seeing  Neil,  both  for 
this  reason  and  because  she  fancied  from  what  she  had 
gathered  that  Granby  Neil  was  not  further  implicated 


280  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

than  as  a  witness — the  only  one,  perhaps — of  something 
which  Posey  wished  to  have  plunged  in  oblivion ;  and 
if  this  were  so,  and  if  Ledyard  and  Mrs.  Henderson 
had  been,  as  she  was  beginning  to  fear,  the  chief  actors, 
it  would  certainly  be  better  for  Millard,  as  well  as  for 
them,  that  he  should  hear  the  truth  from  their  own  lips, 
whatever  it  might  be,  than  from  those  of  a  third  person. 

Of  the  information  which  she  herself  had  given  to 
Mrs.  Henderson,  however,  with  regard  to  Ledyard's  ad- 
dress, she  did  not  feel  at  liberty  to  remain  silent.  She 
disliked  to  increase  the  weight  of  suspicion  against  Led- 
yard, but  it  was  her  plain  duty  to  speak  the  truth,  even 
if  she  had  had  no  desire  to  help  Millard,  and,  clinging  as 
she  did  to  the  hope  of  Ledyard's  innocence,  she  told 
herself  that,  if  really  not  to  blame,  the  truth  would  serve 
him  best.  There  could  be  no  doubt,  on  the  other  hand, 
of  the  advantage  to  Mrs.  Henderson  of  being  found  by 
her  husband  as  quickly  as  possible. 

"  The  only  explanation  which  has  occurred  to  me  of 
the  whole  matter,"  she  said,  at  last,  "  is  that  in  his  pro- 
fessional character  as  a  clergyman  something  in  the  life 
of  Mrs.  Henderson  has  come  to  the  knowledge  of  Mr. 
Ledyard  which  none  of  the  rest  of  us  know,  and  that 
this  being  the  case,  she  has  gone  to  consult  him  as  to 
what  she  had  better  do  in  the  present  emergency." 

"  You  mean  the  emergency  of  her  note  to  Mr.  Led- 
yard's having  fallen  into  the  wrong  hands  ?"  asked  Mil- 
lard, sardonically.  "  Very  like  the  note  of  a  penitent  to 
her  spiritual  adviser,  was  it  not  ?  So  you  have  reason 
to  believe,  Miss  Arkwright,  that  my  wife  has  gone  to 
join  this  fellow  Ledyard  ?" 

"  I  am  not  by  any  means  sure  of  it,"  rejoined  Cynthia, 
coldly. 

"  Forgive  me,"  said  Henderson,  in  a  changed  tone. 
"  I  do  not  mean  to  speak  so,  but  what  you  have  been 
saying  confirms  me  in  my  very  worst  fears.  In  that 
case,  whether  sane  or  insane,  her  reputation  and  my 
honor  are  gone !" 

"  Oh,  do  not  say  that !     It  is  not  true.     I  am  con- 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  28 1 

vinced  that  there  is  something  in  this  whole  matter 
which  we  do  not  and  cannot  understand.  I  am  certain 
that,  however  he  may  be  to  blame,  Mr.  Ledyard  is  no 
villain !" 

"  And  I  am  certain  that,  whatever  else  he  may  be,  he 
is  a  hypocrite !"  returned  Millard,  fiercely.  "  Please  be 
good  enough  to  bear  with  me,"  he  added,  "  and  give  me 
briefly  your  reason  for  thinking  my  wife  has  followed 
this  man." 

"  My  reason  for  fearing  that  she  may  have  done  so  is 
that  she  urged  me  to  give  her  his  present  address.  She 
may  only  have  written  to  him  and  be  gone  somewhere 
else,  but  if  she  should  have  followed  him,  I  do  not  think 
that  she  has  done  so  with  any  bad  intention,"  said  Cyn- 
thia, stoutly.  "  She  told  me  as  much,  and  I  believe  her." 

"  Did  she  tell  you,  then,  that  she  wished  to  go  to  him  ?" 

"  No,  no,  of  course  not !  She  said  she  would  tele- 
graph to  him,  and  that  he  was  the  only  person  who 
could  advise  her." 

"Advise  her  as  to  what?"  asked  Millard,  sternly. 

"  As  to  some  trouble,  which  she  would  not  confide 
to  me,  but  which  was  pressing  keenly  upon  her." 

"  Was  there  ever  anything  more  transparent !"  ex- 
claimed Henderson.  "  Oh,  what  a  fool  I  have  been ! 
You  told  her  the  address,  of  course,  and  it  was " 

Cynthia  mentioned  the  name  of  the  hotel  in  New 
York  which  she  had  confided  to  Posey. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Henderson,  rising  and  drawing  his 
great-coat  about  him.  "  I  think  I  have  just  time  now  to 
be  sure  of  my  train,  and  I  shall  take  my  ticket  to  New 
York."  He  turned  to  leave  her,  but  paused  to  look  back 
as  he  reached  the  door-way,  and,  noticing  how  wan  and 
sad  her  face  was,  said  more  gently,  lifting  the  hat  he 
had  just  assumed,  "  Good-by,  dear  friend.  You  have 
helped  me  more  than  you  imagine.  I  will  try,  like  you, 
to  trust  on  to  the  bitter  end.  " 

Returning  to  her  chamber  after  he  had  gone,  Cynthia 
thought  long  and  anxiously  of  all  that  had  passed,  until 
she  was  startled  by  Nathalie's  knocking  at  her  door  all 

24* 


282  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

dressed  and  ready  for  breakfast.  She  determined  not  to 
tell  her  sister  of  the  shocking  intelligence  which  Millard 
had  conveyed  to  her,  feeling  that  the  most  direct  inter- 
pretation of  the  cause  of  Mrs.  Henderson's  flight  could 
not  be  the  correct  one.  She  had,  indeed,  guessed  enough 
of  the  sensitive  nature  of  Nathalie's  feelings,  during  their 
conversation  the  night  before,  to  believe  that  the  warning 
that  she  had  then  given  was  all  that  it  was  fair  to  give 
while  in  such  painful  uncertainty  as  to  the  truth  regard- 
ing one  who  had  been  to  her  so  kind  a  friend  and  had 
seemed  so  good  a  man  as  Richard  Ledyard. 

She  contented  herself,  therefore,  with  telling  Nathalie 
that  Henderson  had  been  there,  and  had  consulted  her 
about  his  wife's  mental  condition,  which  was  giving  him 
great  uneasiness.  She  asked  her  sister  to  try  to  persuade 
Florence  Betterton  not  to  speak  of  the  note  they  had 
both  seen.  When  Nathalie,  in  consequence  of  this  re- 
quest, however,  took  the  trouble  to  walk  to  Camelot  after 
church  on  the  Sunday  morning,  and  was  at  much  pains  to 
assure  Florence  how  certain  she  felt  that  the  note  from 
Mrs.  Henderson,  which  began  so  strangely,  could  be  ex- 
plained, declaring  that  she  and  Cynthia  were  inclined  to 
believe  that  the  poor  lady  was  slightly  deranged,  she 
met  but  a  cold  reception  and  vainly  tried  to  induce  Miss 
Betterton  to  share  her  view. 

This  was  partly  because  the  course  of  events  had 
subtly  undermined  her  friend's  faith  from  the  time  that 
Florence  had  seen  Mrs.  Henderson  escaping  from  Mr. 
Ledyard's  door  like  a  hunted  thing  to  the  finding  of 
the  note  the  previous  evening,  while  the  final  blow  to 
her  faith  had  been  dealt  that  very  morning  in  a  manner 
which  Nathalie  little  suspected. 

How  could  Nathalie  guess  that  Dr.  Danforth  had  been 
called  the  night  before  between  twelve  and  one  o'clock 
to  prescribe  for  the  child  of  the  station-master,  which 
was  suffering  from  a  violent  attack  of  croup  ?  How 
could  she  conceive  that  he  had  been  informed  by  that 
functionary  of  Mrs.  Henderson's  leaving  Dundaff  in  the 
New  York  express  that  evening,  and  of  Lieutenant  Hen- 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  283 

derson's  having  come  to  the  station  too  late,  and  seemed 
terribly  agitated?  How  could  Nathalie  imagine  that 
Dr.  Danforth  should  have  occasion  to  visit  Mr.  Betterton 
on  the  Sunday  morning  and  acquaint  Florence  with  this 
incident  under  a  solemn  promise  of  secrecy,  or  how  could 
any  one  dream  that  Miss  Betterton  would  forthwith  as- 
sociate the  fact  thus  acquired  with  that  of  Mr.  Ledyard's 
unexpected  absence  from  the  morning  service  at  St. 
Andrew's  ? 

Perhaps  no  one  took  into  account  the  so  much  more 
convincing  effect  upon  a  practical  mind  such  as  hers  of 
what  one  sees  with  one's  own  eyes,  or  puts  together  in 
one's  own  mind,  than  what  one  merely  hears  asserted. 
Be  that  as  it  may,  Nathalie  certainly  returned  from 
Camelot  with  a  sense  of  keen  disappointment  in  her 
former  friend,  and  never  again  professed  the  same  affec- 
tion for  Florence  that  she  had  felt  before. 


CHAPTER   XXXVII. 

THE  spot  chosen  some  three  weeks  before  by  a  com- 
mittee to  decide  where  the  services  in  the  woods  should 
be  held,  of  which  Cynthia  Arkwright  and  Florence  Bet- 
terton were  the  most  active  members,  was  the  flat  space 
on  top  of  the  so-called  Tarpeian  Rock.  There  were  no 
associations  with  its  heathen  appellation  for  Florence 
which  were  inharmonious  with  such  a  choice,  and  for 
Cynthia  the  natural  beauty  of  its  surroundings  outweighed 
any  sense  of  incongruity. 

Very  early  on  the  Sunday  afternoon,  the  weather  hav- 
ing continued  clear  and  bright,  the  working-people  began 
to  gather  together  on  and  around  the  rock,  generally 
wearing  what  Mr.  Betterton  would  have  designated  as  their 
decent  clothes,  but  not  invariably.  Indeed,  the  exceptions 
to  the  rule  formed  a  conspicuous  minority.  There  they 
were,  old  and  young,  clean,  and  unclean  spiritually  and 


284  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

bodily;  a  strong  wave  of  curiosity  having  swept  the 
idle  or  the  indifferent  towards  the  spot  as  readily  as  the 
earnest  and  the  devout  had  been  impelled  by  a  higher 
motive. 

Apparently  the  greater  number  of  the  former  class 
were  children  and  half-grown  boys,  just  as  the  more  nu- 
merous of  the  serious  worshippers  were  women ;  but  by 
far  the  most  formidable  portion  of  the  Bohemian  con- 
gregation thus  assembled  was  a  small  and  determined 
band  of  middle-aged  men,  who  were  neither  believers 
nor  purposeless  spectators.  They  were  distinctly  scoffers. 

There  was  a  certain  element  among  the  factory  work- 
ers which  Mr.  Betterton  had  always  recognized  as  revo- 
lutionary in  its  tendency  and  of  which  he  had  warned 
Lieutenant  Henderson.  There  was  a  dangerous  combi- 
nation in  it  of  ignorance  and  irreverence,  together  with 
an  avidity  for  political  news,  that  rendered  him  not  un- 
reasonably anxious  when  any  important  strike  took  place 
among  the  employees  of  other  corporations. 

Just  now  this  element  had  been  especially  stirred  up 
by  the  very  measures  which  Henderson  had  inaugurated 
with  a  view  to  improving  the  condition  of  laborers.  As 
a  body  of  men  it  held  closely  together,  and,  while  it  de- 
sired nothing  better  than  to  overturn  the  existing  order 
of  things,  looked  jealously  upon  all  innovation  which 
did  not  originate  within  itself.  It  was  probably  unaware 
of  its  own  descent,  but  its  opinions  represented  the  worst 
type  of  German  socialism,  and  the  distinction  which  the 
new  system  tended  to  make  between  a  good  workman 
and  a  poor  workman  in  the  same  grade  of  employment 
was  especially  offensive  to  it. 

This  faction  angrily  contended  that  whether  a  man  were 
clever  or  stupid  at  his  trade  it  made  no  difference  in  the 
need  of  his  having  clothes  to  wear,  or  the  amount  of  food 
required  to  support  himself  and  his  family ;  and  on  this 
ground  it  insisted  that  every  individual  who  consented 
to  take  extra  pay  for  an  equally  short  day's  work  as  his 
fellow-laborer's,  or  equal  pay  to  that  given  the  next  man 
who  had  worked  for  a  greater  number  of  hours,  on  the 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  285 

ground  that  he  had  earned  it  by  what  he  had  accom- 
plished, was  robbing  his  less  gifted  neighbor  of  the  means 
of  subsistence.  Vainly  was  it  explained  to  the  malcon- 
tents that  because  the  able  and  energetic  workman  was 
receiving  more  than  before,  the  stupid  or  apathetic  one 
was  not  receiving  less. 

They  sullenly  maintained  that  the  stupid  man  ate  as 
much,  which  was  incontrovertible,  and  considered  that 
his  right  must  therefore  be  equal,  even  should  it  exceed 
his  necessity.  Indeed,  they  looked  upon  Henderson's 
plan  for  helping  the  men  to  benefit  themselves  as  a  subtle 
scheme  to  bribe  the  workers  from  their  allegiance  to  the 
various  trades-unions  and  other  organized  combinations 
for  forcing  the  employer  to  listen  to  the  claims  of  the 
laborer,  because  the  first  principle  of  these  societies  was 
the  old  fallacy  of  the  natural  equality  of  all  men,  and 
that  principle  was  so  evidently  unrecognized  by  the  new 
mill-owner. 

As  Lieutenant  Henderson  was  known  to  be  favorably 
inclined  towards  the  holding  of  these  services  in  the  open 
air,  it  had  somehow  gone  forth  among  the  demi-gods 
that  they  were  designed  to  disseminate  the  treacherous 
principles  which  had  been  propounded  by  him,  and  they 
had  resolved,  therefore,  to  attend  these  ceremonies  and 
to  make  their  lack  of  sympathy  evident  by  their  way  of 
deporting  themselves. 

Had  Richard  Ledyard  fully  realized  the  difficulty  of 
the  task  before  him,  it  is  probable  that  a  less  troubled 
spirit  than  his  for  the  last  two  weeks  had  become,  might 
have  quailed  at  the  thought  of  the  ordeal,  but  as  he  leapt 
from  the  arriving  train  at  twenty  minutes  after  three 
o'clock  on  that  Sunday  afternoon,  and  hastened  up  the 
hill  on  which  the  little  rectory  stood,  intent  on  making 
the  necessary  preparations  for  officiating  in  the  woods  at 
four  o'clock,  his  only  sensation  was  one  of  thankfulness 
that,  in  spite  of  much  anxiety,  he  had  arrived  in  time  to 
keep  his  promise. 

When,  having  succeeded,  in  the  course  often  or  fifteen 
minutes,  in  making  his  arrangements,  he  emerged  again 


286  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

from  his  house,  washed  and  completely  redressed,  with 
his  sermon-case  under  his  arm,  he  was  too  much  pre- 
occupied to  notice  that  one  or  two  of  the  villagers  whom 
he  met  looked  supernaturally  grave,  or  returned  his 
hasty  greeting  with  a  stiffness  which  he  had  never  before 
encountered.  He  was  entirely  absorbed  in  what  he  in- 
tended to  do  and  say,  and  thus  thought  nothing  about 
their  looks;  but  when,  on  arriving  at  the  place  of  assem- 
bly, he  beheld  the  whole  of  the  hill-side  covered  with 
men,  women,  and  children,  a  great  throb  of  enthusiasm 
pulsed  through  him  like  the  mighty  chord  of  some  vast 
organ,  filling  his  soul  with  solemn  music,  and  lifting  his 
whole  being  far  above  the  trivial  chances  of  the  every- 
day world,  that  had  become  as  unreal  to  him  as  the  pres- 
ence of  all  these  eager,  curious,  anxious,  earnest,  de- 
vout, or  antagonistic  spirits  whom  it  was  his  mission 
to  meet  and  to  minister  to,  was  absolute  and  all-im- 
portant 

He  hardly  saw  the  Bettertons,  or  Dr.  Danforth  with 
his  guest  beside  him,  or  Mrs.  Pelham,  or  even  Cynthia 
Ark wright,  much  as  her  presence  meant  to  him,  but 
Nathalie  he  did  see, — Nathalie  and  the  people  ! 

His  weary-looking  friend  the  curate,  from  the  mission 
chapel  in  New  York,  was  already  on  the  ground,  and 
evidently  experiencing  much  embarrassment  from  the 
unusual  situation.  Indeed,  the  wild  and  picturesque 
surroundings,  the  strange  mixture  of  ages,  classes,  and 
dispositions,  which  was  evident  even  to  an  ordinary 
observer,  might  well  appall  his  timid  spirit ;  but  to  Led- 
yard  the  strangeness  of  the  scene  was  an  incentive  and 
its  wildness  a  source  of  inspiration. 

He  was  pleased  at  the  heartiness  with  which  the  con- 
gregation joined  in  the  opening  hymn.  He  had  inten- 
tionally selected  one  with  a  well-known  tune,  and  lines 
which  he  hoped  might  be  familiar  to  most  of  them,  but 
had  forgotten  that  Cynthia's  boys  were  trained  to  sing 
in  chorus  together,  and  although  less  accustomed  to 
sacred  songs  than  to  old  English  ballads,  which  she  had 
taken  pleasure  in  teaching  them,  were  ready  at  any  mo- 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  287 

ment  to  exercise  their  healthy  lungs,  in  or  out  of  season, 
for  the  faintest  persuasion.  With  such  an  organized  body 
to  lead  the  choir,  therefore,  men,  women,  and  children 
joined  in  the  good  old  refrain  of  "  Rock  of  Ages,"  and 
it  is  highly  probable  that  many  of  the  little  ones  shared 
the  impression  which  Tommy  Baker  afterwards  confided 
to  Cynthia,  that  the  Rock  referred  to  was  the  very  one 
round  which  they  were  sitting,  and  momentarily  expected 
to  see  it  open  to  such  a  sonorous  and  urgent  appeal,  so 
as  at  least  to  give  him  an  opportunity  of  seeing  the  inside 
of  it.  About  the  joy  of  hiding  there  for  any  length  of 
time  he  felt  more  doubtful. 

There  was  no  levity  shown,  however,  by  him  or  by 
others,  during  the  services.  The  gentle  voice  of  Mrs. 
Pelham  and  the  deep  tones  of  Dr.  Danforth,  with  M"iss 
Betterton's  soprano,  might  be  distinguished  leading  the 
responses,  while  the  recurring  murmur  from  the  many 
mouths  of  the  kneeling  people  was  like  the  rush  of 
the  wind  among  the  forest-trees  about  them.  Very 
sweet  and  impressive  were  the  fine  old  prayers  uttered  in 
Richard's  earnest,  manly  tones,  and  so  persuasive  were 
his  strong,  vivid  face  and  his  steady  eyes,  in  which  burned 
a  fire  of  enthusiasm,  that  by  the  time  he  began  his  ser- 
mon a  perceptible  change  had  taken  place  in  the  mental 
attitude  of  three  classes  of  his  auditors. 

First  among  these  were  the  discontented  ringleaders 
of  the  Dundaff  Mills.  It  was  a  long  while  since  these 
men  had  been  to  any  church,  and  they  had  most  of 
them  never  before  heard  the  original  Episcopal  service. 
They  had  been  prepared  for  hymns  and  extemporaneous 
prayers,  such  as  were  heard  in  the  Methodist  gatherings 
of  this  character,  and  then  for  the  expounding  of  the 
Bible,  being  under  the  impression  that  the  most  danger- 
ous portion  of  the  seditious  influence  that  they  had  corne 
to  oppose  would  be  conveyed  in  this  subtle  form.  They 
perhaps  feared  that  some  such  parable  would  be  chosen 
as  that  of  the  laborers  who  came  at  the  eleventh  hour 
and  yet  received  equal  pay  from  the  lord  of  the  vineyard, 
in  order  that  it  might  be  used  to  illustrate  the  plan  which 


288  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

they  chose  to  consider  a  perversion  of  justice  on  the  part 
of  Lieutenant  Henderson. 

Their  spirit  of  contemptuous  disapproval  was  cer- 
tainly losing  ground.  It  had  been  somewhat  daunted 
by  the  unwonted  solemnity  of  the  occasion.  The  unex- 
pected dignity  of  the  service,  in  which  so  many  of  the 
congregation  joined  with  fervor,  was  a  revelation  to  them  ; 
but  what  impressed  them  most  they  would  have  found 
it  least  easy  to  explain.  This  was  a  certain  remoteness 
from  things  of  this  world  in  the  face  and  manner  of  the 
rector,  which,  indefinable  as  it  seemed  incomprehensible 
to  their  practical  minds,  was  yet  more  convincing  than 
any  argument  could  have  been  of  the  futility  of  their 
fears. 

What  had  a  man  filled  with  such  thoughts  as  possessed 
him  to  say  of  this  or  that  fancied  grievance  or  petty 
prerogative?  "And  they  shall  come  from  the  east,  and 
from  the  west,  and  from  the  north,  and  from  the  south, 
and  sit  down  in  the  kingdom  of  God,"  was  the  text  of  his 
sermon,  and  as  it  rang  out,  in  his  clear  tenor  voice,  over 
the  heads  of  the  people,  they  realized  that  it  would  not 
either,  in  the  faintest  possible  manner,  be  made  to  apply 
to  any  of  the  problems  of  political  economy. 

The  second  division  of  the  multitude  which  underwent 
a  decided  modification  of  opinion  with  regard  to  the 
meaning  of  this  gathering  together  of  the  people  was 
that  composed  of  the  well-to-do  shopkeepers  of  Dundaff, 
who  had  opposed  the  open-air  services  from  the  first,  but, 
led  by  curiosity  or  their  wives,  had  come  in  considerable 
numbers,  to  judge  for  themselves,  with  a  view  of  after- 
wards denouncing  the  impropriety  of  such  a  convoca 
tion,  and  the  want  of  appreciation  of  the  fitness  of  things 
on  the  part  of  Mr.  Ledyard,  who  was  thus  willing  to 
turn  the  worship  of  sober-minded,  respectable  people  like 
themselves  into  a  sort  of  show  for  the  sake  of  making 
a  theatrical  display  of  his  own  eloquence  !  He  should, 
these  worthy  villagers  thought,  be  led  to  realize  the 
unseemliness  of  so  unauthorized  an  effort,  to  collect 
\  congregation  and  preach  to  it  beyond  the  walls  of 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  289 

a  consecrated  building  !  And  yet — and  yet  there  cer- 
tainly was  no  want  of  reverence  on  the  part  of  the  young 
rector,  and  no  lack  of  earnestness  to  be  noted  in  the 
aspect  of  the  people.  By  the  time  the  service  was  over 
these  good  men  were  considerably  shaken  in  their  opin- 
ions, instead  of  being  strengthened  in  them,  as  they  had 
fully  expected  to  be. 

But  the  third  class  of  converts  were  turncoats  of  the 
most  shameless  type.  They  consisted  of  the  wives  of 
the  village  magnates,  who  had  heard  the  evil  stories  cir- 
culated by  their  leader  and  chief  scandal-monger,  Mrs. 
Betterton,  and  fervently  believed  them  at  the  moment, 
but  who  did  not  hesitate  to  forsake  their  commanding 
officer  and  abjure  the  creed  which  had  been  embraced 
by  them,  as  to  the  righteousness  of  her  cause,  simply 
because  Mr.  Ledyard's  face  looked  "  so  stern"  at  one 
moment  and  "  so  inspired"  the  next  that  they  could 
not  associate  the  idea  of  laxity  of  duty,  or  the  sinful 
pursuit  of  amusement  at  the  expense  of  propriety  and 
honor,  with  such  a  rapt  demeanor  and  so  much  force  of 
will. 

It  is  not  worth  while  to  mention  Cynthia  and  Nathalie 
Arkwright  as  of  this  class,  for  they  neither  of  them  had 
been  able  to  bring  themselves  actually  to  doubt  Richard 
Ledyard,  while,  strangely  enough,  Miss  Betterton,  who 
had  been  so  strongly  prejudiced  in  Ledyard's  favor,  had, 
ever  since  the  sight  of  Mrs.  Henderson's  note,  been  com- 
pletely convinced  of  the  truth  of  her  mother's  theory  as 
to  his  duplicity  and  inexcusable  lightness  of  conduct, 
and  nothing  but  the  fact  that  she  had  been  so  instru- 
mental in  getting  the  congregation  together  prevented 
her  from  remaining  away.  She  was,  therefore,  the  one 
instance  of  a  convert  in  the  opposite  direction,  and  she 
alone  of  all  the  concourse  of  worshippers,  so  it  seemed 
to  Nathalie,  remained  rigidly  unimpressed  by  Ledyard's 
fervor  or  the  magnetic  force  of  his  stirring  address. 

He  first  suggested  to  them  the  idea  of  a  vast  assem- 
blage of  all  the  nations  of  the  earth  in  this  our  nether 
world,  using  the  unusual  opportunity  afforded  by  the 
N  t  25 


BROKEN  CHORDS. 

wide-spread  landscape  about  him  to  awaken  the  imagina- 
tion of  the  people  with  the  fancy  that  all  the  hills  and 
fields  and  valleys,  which  rose  and  fell  and  stretched  them- 
selves as  far  as  the  horizon,  might  be  covered  with  this 
multitude  gathered  from  east  and  west  and  north  and 
south,  and  asked  what  persons  would  be  most  highly 
honored  in  such  a  throng.  Would  not  the  great  rulers, 
the  men  of  wealth,  of  exalted  birth,  of  science,  of  litera- 
ture, of  art,  the  political  leaders,  the  statesmen,  the  finan- 
ciers, be  those  in  each  nation  to  whom  the  others  would 
bow  down  ?  Then  he  asked  them  to  picture  to  them- 
selves such  an  assemblage  in  heaven.  He  did  not  dwell 
on  the  surroundings  or  the  pageant  in  this  conception, 
but  inquired  what  persons  here  would  be  most  sought 
after  or  most  honored.  Would  it  be  kings  and  prin- 
ces ?  Would  it  be  men  of  wealth,  or  of  lofty  birth,  or 
of  great  intellectual  powers,  or  political  leaders,  or  rail- 
road magnates,  great  artists,  statesmen,  discoverers  ? 

The  audience  was  prepared  for  a  negative  answer  to 
these  questions,  but  the  answer  which  the  orator  gave 
was  qualified.  It  would  depend,  he  said,  upon  how  these 
men  of  exalted  position  or  of  transcendent  talent  and 
capability  had  used  their  powers  whether  any  of  them 
might  attain  first  places,  but  he  could  tell  his  audience 
what  kind  of  people  would  surely  stand  first, — would 
undoubtedly  be  sought,  and  admired,  and  surrounded 
by  loving  faces  and  devoted  followers, — and  these  were 
the  men  who  had  faced  death  to  save  the  lives  or  homes 
of  others,  whether  from  fire  or  flood  or  the  swords  of 
enemies,  and  had  yet  had  a  kindly  word  always  for  a 
companion,  or  a  helpful  hand  for  one  who  was  sick  or 
wounded;  the  women  who  had  worked  and  suffered, 
who  had  borne  hunger  and  want,  for  those  they  loved, 
but  yet  had  found  it  in  their  hearts  to  give  of  their 
slender  earnings  to  some  helpless  neighbor  more  desti- 
tute than  they ;  the  brothers  who  had  been  stanch  and 
true  to  one  another;  the  sisters  who  had  been  tender 
and  forbearing ;  the  wives  who  had  been  cheerful,  loving, 
and  forgiving;  the  husbands  who  had  toiled  and  strug- 


BROKEN  CHORDS. 

gled  for  their  families  and  yet  been  considerate  and 
affectionate  in  their  homes ;  the  fathers  and  mothers 
who  had  done  their  duty,  when  hardest,  to  their  chil- 
dren ;  the  children  who  had  tried  to  be  kind  to  one  an- 
other, who  had  tried  not  to  complain  when  ill,  who 
had  tried  to  help  their  parents  and  to  sweeten  and  make 
happy  their  lives  as  they  were  meant  to  do.  He  could 
not  close  the  list  of  those  they  would  all  be  wishing  to 
love  and  honor  most  in  heaven,  he  said,  without  speaking 
of  those  who  had  borne  the  most  grievous  suffering  on 
earth,  of  body  or  of  mind,  striving  not  to  make  others 
suffer  for  the  pain  they  felt;  of  the  hopeless  invalids 
whose  lives  were  worn  out  in  endless  pain,  or  those 
mysteriously-afflicted  beings  forced  at  times  to  live  with- 
out the  light  of  reason,  whose  whole  experience  on  earth 
had  been  inexplicable  misery,  and  yet  who  had  borne  it 
patiently.  Those  had  been  known  who,  in  the  midst  of 
such  an  existence  of  bitter  hardship,  had  kept  a  bright 
faith  in  the  world  to  come  when  able  to  think  in  the 
midst  of  suffering,  had  tried,  when  conscious  of  what  they 
did,  to  be  charitable  to  the  faults  of  those  who  wounded 
them  through  ignorance,  and  to  be  grateful  for  the  kind- 
ness of  those  who  gave  them  sympathy  or  love. 

Now,  why  would  all  these  people  whom  he  had  been 
describing  be  loved  in  heaven  ?  Would  it  be  on  account 
of  the  good  they  had  done  on  earth  ?  They  would 
many  of  them  have  done  good,  no  doubt,  but  many  of 
them  would  only  have  succeeded  in  not  doing  harm. 
For  what,  then,  would  they  be  honored  ?  What  was  the 
one  part  that  they  all  held  in  common  ? 

Surely  it  was  that  they  had  each  thought  of  others 
before  themselves !  It  was  the  spirit  of  unselfishness 
which  had  controlled  them  in  this  world,  and  which  was 
the  law  of  the  kingdom  of  God. 

After  this  fashion  was  Ledyard's  very  simple  discourse, 
made  intentionally  easy  to  grasp  for  the  youngest  or 
most  ignorant  of  the  motley  throng  assembled  before 
him,  and  carefully  kept  free  of  dogma.  It  was  also  de- 
livered with  much  simplicity  and  directness  of  manner, 


292  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

and  only  the  great  earnestness  and  the  easy  flow  of 
forcibly  descriptive  language  which  were  natural  to  the 
preacher  made  him  seem  eloquent  at  times. 


CHAPTER   XXXVIII. 

THE  sermon  was  over.  The  congregation  had  been 
dismissed  with  a  short  prayer,  and  were  dispersing 
rapidly,  the  children  and  many  of  the  young  people 
betaking  themselves  to  the  woods  for  a  healthy  ramble 
before  the  sinking  sun  should  set,  and  the  mothers  of 
families  hastening  home  to  prepare  the  evening  meal, 
while  the  men  collected  in  groups,  as  is  their  nature, 
to  smoke  their  Sunday  pipes  and  compare  impres- 
sions. 

Among  those  who  wandered  into  the  forest  was  Flor- 
ence Betterton,  accompanied  by  Dr.  Danforth.  She  in- 
vited Nathalie  to  go  with  them,  but  the  younger  Miss 
Arkwright  did  not  accept  the  invitation.  She  preferred 
rather  to  linger  near  her  sister,  who  was  engaged  in  a 
low-toned  conversation  with  her  friend  Mrs.  Pelham, 
and,  as  she  stood  thus  waiting,  was  joined  by  Mr.  Granby 
Neil,  the  friend  of  Dr.  Danforth. 

"  A  man  of  great  talent,  that  young  Ledyard,"  said 
Mr.  Neil.  "  I  had  no  idea  that  he  was  settled  here  until 
Danforth  asked  me  to  come  to  hear  him  this  afternoon. 
What  a  striking  way  he  has  of  putting  things !  It  is 
more  that,  and  his  earnestness,  than  anything  he  says 
which  is  particularly  new  or  clever." 

Nathalie  said  nothing.  Her  opinion  of  Richard's 
ability  may  have  been  less  qualified,  but  if  she  had 
thought  Mr.  Neil  were  praising  him  too  highly  she  could 
not  have  been  more  guarded. 

"  I  used  to  know  him  years  ago,"  proceeded  the  artist, 
whose  manner  was  unusually  excited,  "  but  had  lost 
track  of  him,  as  of  so  many  others,  and  curiously  come 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  293 

upon  him  in  this  unexpected  corner  of  the  earth,  just  as 
I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  go  to  New  York  to-morrow 
for  the  express  purpose  of  looking  him  up." 

"  Of  looking  up  Mr.  Ledyard  ?"  Nathalie,  who  had 
been  standing  in  a  listless  attitude  of  half-attention,  sud- 
denly awoke  to  interest.  She  fancied  she  had  some 
clue  to  what  Mr.  Ledyard  had  wanted  with  Mr.  Neil, 
but  what  could  Mr.  Neil  possibly  want  with  Mr.  Led- 
yard, she  wondered. 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  should  have  gone  to-day,  in  which 
case  I  should  have  missed  my  man,  but  that  I  had  prom- 
ised to  dine  with  Millard  Henderson  before  he  was  called 
unexpectedly  away,  '  on  business,'  as  he  writes  me,"  re- 
plied Mr.  Neil,  in  his  hard,  unmodulated  tones. 

"  It  is  certainly  strange  that  you  should  have  been  so 
intimate  a  friend  of  Lieutenant  Henderson  and  of  Dr. 
Danforth  both,  and  also  an  old  friend  of  Mr.  Ledyard, 
and  should  find  them  all  living  in  the  same  neighbor- 
hood," returned  Nathalie. 

"  Oh,  as  for  Ledyard,  it  is  not  a  matter  of  friendship 
with  him,  exactly.  I  wanted  to  find  him  because  I  thought 
it  just  possible  he  could  give  me  some  information  which 
I  did  not  know  how  else  to  obtain ;  that  was  all.  I  am 
only  waiting  for  him  to  get  rid  of  his  clerical  friend  now 
before  speaking  to  him  on  the  subject,"  answered  Mr. 
Neil,  quite  unconscious  that  his  voice  grew  louder  and 
louder  as  he  spoke.  "  Why  can't  the  fellow  go  ?"  he 
added,  impatiently. 

"  Mr.  Ledyard  and  his  friend  are  coming  this  way !" 
shouted  Nathalie  desperately  in  the  artist's  ear;  and, 
indeed,  before  Mr.  Neil,  whose  back  was  towards  the 
advancing  figures,  could  turn  fairly  round,  they  were 
close  beside  them.  Nathalie  would  have  been  ready  to 
laugh  at  the  startled  expression  of  the  spectacled  curate, 
if  courtesy  had  not  forbidden,  for  it  was  evident  that  he 
was  not  deaf,  and  that  he  had  overheard  Mr.  Neil's  un- 
guarded allusion  to  himself,  but  she  felt  a  something 
between  fear  and  gladness  as  Ledyard  drew  near  which 
overcame  her  sense  of  humor  and  so  surprised  her  with 

25* 


294  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

herself  as  to  produce  a  large  infusion  of  frigid  dignity 
into  her  greeting  to  the  young  rector. 

Indeed,  so  far  from  giving  way  to  the  momentary 
amusement  which  the  curate's  look  of  alarm  had  caused 
her,  she  found  herself  turning  with  relief  to  Mr.  Cush- 
man,  whom  Ledyard  immediately  presented,  and  flinging 
herself  with  energy  into  the  effort  to  restore  his  lost 
equanimity. 

The  greeting  between  GranbyNeil  and  Mr.  Ledyard, 
meanwhile,  had  not  been  exactly  cordial,  although  there 
seemed  to  be  an  effort  on  both  sides  to  render  it  so. 
There  was  a  certain  constraint  apparent  in  Ledyard's 
manner,  and  a  kind  of  nervous  eagerness  in  Mr.  Neil's, 
which  did  not  belong  naturally  to  either. 

"  I  am  very  anxious  for  a  word  with  you,  Mr.  Led- 
yard," said  Neil,  almost  sharply. 

"  And  I,  too,  am  anxious  to  speak  to  you,"  rejoined 
Ledyard,  with  some  stiffness.  "  Shall  we  walk  back  to- 
gether? My  friend  Mr.  Cushman  will,  I  am  sure,  excuse 
me. — I  will  see  you  at  the  rectory,  Cushman,"  he  contin- 
ued to  the  latter,  and  then  added  in  a  lower  tone,  address- 
ing Nathalie,  "  Will  you  kindly  take  my  guest  in  charge 
for  me,  Miss  Nathalie  ?  and  may  I  hope  to  see  you  soon  ?" 

"  When  do  you  wish  to  do  so  ?"  she  asked,  proudly. 

"  This  evening  ?" 

"  As  you  please."  She  spoke  without  raising  her  eye- 
lids. Indeed,  her  whole  face  looked  calm  and  cold  to 
Mr.  Cushman's  rather  restricted  vision,  but  the  next 
moment  a  swift  and  sudden  change  came  over  it,  for, 
without  waiting  until  they  were  out  of  ear-shot,  Mr.  Neil, 
who  had  been  standing  by  with  ill-concealed  impatience, 
put  his  hand  on  Mr.  Ledyard's  shoulder  just  as  they 
were  turning  away,  and  said,  in  what  he  no  doubt  in- 
tended for  an  undertone, — 

"  What  do  you  know  of  Posey  ?  Tell  me  quick,  man. 
Is  she  alive,  or  dead  ?  Can  you  guess  where  she  is  ?" 

"  She  is  living,  and  I  saw  her  this  morning,"  Ledyard 
said,  also  speaking  in  a  loud,  clear  tone,  to  make  his 
companion  hear. 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  2$$ 

"  Living !  Where  ?"  was  the  breathless  rejoinder ;  but 
how  Mr.  Ledyard  may  have  answered  this  question  they 
could  not  tell,  as  the  two  men  had  passed  by  this  time 
far  down  the  hill  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  rock  to 
theirs. 

Cynthia  and  Mrs.  Pelham  were  slowly  descending  the 
declivity  by  a  more  regular  path,  which  Nathalie  and  the 
curate  also  hastened  to  follow. 

This  path  joined  the  narrow  lane  which  bordered  the 
river,  and  for  a  few  moments  they  pursued  it  in  silence. 
Nathalie  was  entirely  absorbed  in  the  train  of  thought 
unexpectedly  started  by  what  she  had  just  heard.  Her 
brow  was  slightly  contracted,  and  her  teeth  set  firmly 
over  her  lower  lip,  as  was  a  way  of  hers  at  times  when 
troubled.  She  had  almost  forgotten  the  existence  of 
Mr.  Cushman,  until  her  attention  was  awakened  by  seeing 
that  he  was  looking  at  her  with  timid  wonder.  Then  it 
was  that,  rising  to  the  occasion,  she  cut  short  his  further 
study  of  her  expression  by  launching  into  an  animated 
conversation  with  him  on  all  sorts  of  subjects,  which 
she  kept  up  until  they  reached  the  village. 

Just  as  they  did  so,  a  little  imp  of  a  telegraph-boy 
came  hopping  from  stone  to  stone  across  the  river,  which 
was  very  shallow  below  the  dam,  and,  leaping  up  the 
bank  with  wonderful  agility,  landed  at  Mr.  Cushman's 
side,  into  whose  hand  he  stuck  a  yellow  envelope  and 
grinned  from  ear  to  ear.  "  Sign  the  book !"  ejaculated 
this  tyrant,  producing  the  record  from  his  pocket,  to 
which  a  pencil  was  attached  by  a  very  dirty  string. 

"  Here,  give  the  book  to  me.  I  will  sign  it,"  said 
Nathalie,  perceiving  that  her  companion  was  completely 
overcome  by  the  suddenness  of  the  attack.  He  probably 
had  visions  of  his  father's  house  in  flames,  or  his  mother 
desperately  ill,  poor  fellow,  as  his  trembling  fingers  has- 
tily tore  open  the  envelope,  while  Nathalie  signed  the 
book  and  slipped  a  ten-cent  piece  into  the  expectant 
hand  of  the  bearer,  who  departed  rejoicing.  But  what 
was  the  curate's  astonishment  to  be  greeted  by  these 
words : 


296  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

"  If  you  are  not  a  coward  as  well  as  a  villain,  you 
will  meet  me  at  the  railway-station  in  DundafF  at  eleven 
o'clock  to-night. 

(Signed)     "  MILLARD  HENDERSON." 

"  Millard  Henderson !"  repeated  Mr.  Cushman,  help- 
lessly. "  What  can  this  mean  ?  I  never  knew  such  a 
person.  There  must  be  some  mistake." 

"  Of  course  there  is,"  returned  Nathalie,  looking  un- 
ceremoniously over  his  shoulder.  "  Do  you  not  see 
that  the  message  is  not  addressed  to  you  at  all  ?  It  is 
intended  for  Mr.  Ledyard.  Give  it  to  me,  please,"  she 
continued.  "  Here,  boy !"  She  shouted  in  vain.  The  boy 
was  already  half-way  across  the  river  on  his  return 
voyage,  and,  glancing  at  the  telegram,  which  she  now 
held  in  her  hand,  Nathalie  suddenly  changed  her  mind. 
"  On  the  whole,"  she  said,  quietly,  "  it  is  hardly  worth 
while  to  call  him  back,  for  since  the  cover  has  been 
opened  it  could  not  be  intrusted  to  him.  I  can  give  it 
to  Mr.  Ledyard,  as  he  spoke  of  coming  to  see  me  this 
evening.  In  case  you  should  see  him  first,  Mr.  Cush- 
man, will  you  kindly  tell  him  that  a  message  came,  and 
that  I  took  charge  of  it?  It  no  doubt  seems  oddly 
expressed  to  you,"  pursued  this  wily  diplomatist,  "  but  it 
is  probably  only  some  joke  of  Lieutenant  Henderson's, 
as  he  and  Mr.  Ledyard  are  friends,  and  he  is  very  full 
of  fun." 

Mr.  Cushman  looked  as  though  he  thought  it  an  odd 
sort  of  fun,  but  he  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief  as  his  visions 
of  death  and  destruction  vanished.  Here  Mrs.  Pelham, 
who  had  walked  some  little  distance  ahead  all  the  way, 
still  absorbed  in  earnest  talk  with  Cynthia,  turned  sud- 
denly back  to  the  younger  girl  and  asked  if  she  might 
not  take  them  both  home  in  the  carriage,  which  was  to 
meet  her  at  the  druggist's  in  Dundaff.  Nathalie  con- 
sented, regretting,  as  she  parted  with  her  new  ac- 
quaintance, that  although  a  high-minded  young  man 
he  seemed  to  be  mentally  as  well  as  physically  short- 
sighted. 


BROKEN  CHORDS. 

Seated  in  the  Fernwood  carriage,  she  and  Cynthia 
were  soon  mounting  the  hill  towards  the  cottage  with 
Mrs.  Pelham,  but  there  was  not  a  word  interchanged 
between  any  of  them  until,  leaning  forward  and  taking 
her  sister's  hand  in  hers  as  they  were  nearing  the  gate, 
Cynthia  said, — 

"  Would  you  miss  me  much,  Nathalie,  and  feel  very 
lonely  if  I  left  you  to-night  ?" 

Nathalie  looked  at  her  in  astonishment. 

"  To  leave  me !"  she  ejaculated.  "  Why,  where  do  you 
think  of  going?" 

"  It  is  all  my  selfishness,  Nathalie  dear,"  said  Mrs. 
Pelham,  anxiously.  "  I  have  been  trying  to  persuade 
Cynthia  to  come  home  with  me,  because — because  my 
nephew  has  had  to  go  away  on  business,  and  I  feel  lonely 
myself,  and — well,  just  a  little  bit  worried."  There  were 
tears  in  the  voice  of  the  gentle  lady,  which  had  been 
bravely  held  back  from  appearing  in  her  troubled  eyes. 
Nathalie's  quick  ear  detected  the  note  of  distress,  al- 
though not  in  possession,  as  was  her  sister,  of  all  Mrs. 
Pelham's  reasons  for  anxiety,  and  she  immediately  formed 
a  theory  of  what  she  supposed  to  be  the  situation. 

As  Lieutenant  Henderson  was  indeed  away,  poor  Mrs. 
Pelham  was  left  alone,  of  course,  with  that  excited  woman, 
and  no  wonder  she  felt  apprehensive  as  to  what  Mrs. 
Henderson  might  do  or  what  might  happen  before  her 
husband  could  return. 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Pelham,  you  are  not  selfish  at  all  to  want 
Cynthia  to  be  with  you,"  said  Nathalie,  earnestly.  "  It 
would  be  very  selfish  if  I  wished  to  keep  her  from  going 
home  with  you  for  the  night,  and  I  trust  she  will  do 
so  ;  but  I  cannot  help  hoping  that  Lieutenant  Henderson 
may  return  sooner  than  you  think.  At  any  rate,  you 
must  not  be  troubled  about  me.  I  have  a  book  which 
I  particularly  want  to  read,"  she  added,  nodding  gayly 
at  her  sister,  with  a  brave  effort  to  hide  her  own  anxiety. 

Cynthia  laughed.  "  You  see,  Mrs.  Pelham,  that  Nath- 
alie really  does  not  want  me,"  she  declared,  turning  to 
her  friend. 


298  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

They  reached  the  point  at  which  the  narrow  track 
leading  to  Cynthia's  cottage  turned  off  from  the  main 
road  just  then.  Nathalie  kissed  her  sister,  who  saw  that 
she  was  secretly  troubled,  but  did  not  guess  how  much, 
as  she  talked  reassuringly  to  Mrs.  Pelham  while  Cynthia 
got  together  the  few  things  she  wanted  for  the  night, 
gave  various  parting  directions  to  old  Marjory,  and,  en- 
joining her  to  take  good  care  of  Nathalie,  bade  them 
both  farewell. 

After  the  carriage  had  driven  away,  however,  and 
Nathalie  had  put  aside  her  bonnet  and  disposed  of  the 
solitary  evening  meal,  not  rendered  more  cheerful  by 
the  grim  presence  and  severe  attentions  of  old  Marjory, 
she  began  to  look  much  less  hopeful,  and,  in  spite  of 
every  effort  to  concentrate  her  attention  on  the  book  she 
had  mentioned,  was  overcome  with  a  nameless  depression, 
together  with  an  unusual  sense  of  restlessness.  She 
tried  to  persuade  herself  that  it  was  the  fading  of  the 
daylight  which  led  her  to  change  from  one  chair  to 
another  in  the  little  parlor  of  the  cottage,  and  finally 
to  wander  out  on  to  the  veranda  and  seat  herself  where 
the  last  rays  of  the  sun  fell  full  across  her  page,  before 
its  brightness  slowly  passed  away;  but,  despite  this 
special  illumination,  the  meaning  of  what  she  read 
did  not  become  any  more  clear  to  her.  She  might 
have  said  with  Hamlet  that  it  was  "  words,  words, 
words,"  while  all  the  while  her  brain  received  only  the 
sound  of  them,  being  engaged  with  quite  a  different 
matter. 

By  and  by  the  evening  mellowed  to  a  tender  after- 
glow, and  then  deepened  into  the  gray  tints  of  dusk. 
All  the  sweet  odors  of  a  summer  night  were  in  the  air, 
and  distant  sounds  fell  faint  but  distinct  upon  the  ear. 
The  first  clear  light  of  the  rising  moon  was  beginning  to 
silver  the  edges  of  the  foliage  in  the  little  garden,  when 
another  sound — not  a  distant  one,  and  growing  nearer 
— was  borne  to  the  solitary  listener.  It  was  certainly 
the  sound  of  approaching  footsteps,  and  seemed  unmis- 
takably the  echo  of  a  man's  tread.  Nevertheless,  she 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  299 

feared  to  trust  the  evidence  of  her  ears,  and  drew  her 
breath  hard,  but  the  next  moment  saw  a  figure,  which 
could  belong  to  none  other  than  Richard  Ledyard,  be- 
coming more  plainly  visible  at  each  step  as  he  came 
rapidly  up  the  garden  walk. 


CHAPTER    XXXIX. 

THE  moon,  so  far  from  finding  Nathalie  out,  as  the 
sun  had,  only  deepened  the  gloom  about  her  into  ab- 
solute blackness,  while  it  shone  on  the  path  before  the 
house,  on  the  steps  of  the  veranda,  and  frosted  the  honey- 
suckle vine  which  climbed  the  wooden  pillar  of  the 
narrow  porch.  Seated  in  the  deep  shadow  thrown  by 
this  vine,  she  was  conscious  of  a  sudden  and  unreasonable 
desire  to  avoid  the  observation  of  the  very  person  for 
whom  she  had  been  watching  the  last  two  hours.  She 
was  glad  that  Ledyard  did  not  know  she  was  there. 
She  was  glad  of  the  sheltering  darkness.  She  only 
feared  that  Neptune,  who  had  bounded  forward  to  meet 
the  visitor,  might  betray  her.  But  Neptune  was  too 
much  absorbed  in  welcoming  one  of  his  best  friends  to 
take  account  of  a  foolish  little  girl  who  was  suddenly 
overcome  with  an  unusual  fit  of  shyness.  Indeed,  had 
not  her  gown  been  of  some  light  material  which  caught 
a  faint  reflection  of  borrowed  brightness,  they  might 
have  passed  into  the  house  together  without  noticing 
her. 

As  it  was,  Mr.  Ledyard  was  close  to  the  steps  on 
which  she  was  sitting  before  he  could  distinguish  the 
outline  of  her  form;  and  yet  he  was  hoping  to  see  her! 
When  the  faint  vision  dawned  on  him  at  last,  however, 
he  did  not  seem  to  doubt  her  identity.  He  merely 
stretched  out  his  hand  for  hers,  and,  without  a  word  of 
greeting,  she  laid  her  little  cold  fingers  in  it. 

"  How  glad  I  am  to  see  you  !"  he  said,  softly.     "  May 


300  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

I  sit  here,  Miss  Nathalie  ?"  She  bowed  her  head,  still 
silent,  but  Ledyard  began  to  talk  at  once. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said,  turning  his  face  towards  her  in 
the  darkness,  "  how  you  have  been  all  this  time.  Has 
your  sister  been  well,  and  is  she  at  home  ?  I  fancied 
this  afternoon  that  your  face  had  changed,  as  if  you  had 
had  some  trouble.  Is  that  so  ?" 

"  My  sister  is  well,  thank  you,  but  she  has  gone  to 
Fernwood  to  spend  the  night  with  Mrs.  Henderson  and 
Mrs.  Pelham,"  replied  Nathalie,  quietly,  temporarily  ig- 
noring his  last  question ;  but  there  was  something  so 
kindly,  so  frank,  so  confiding,  and  so  much  manly  con- 
cern in  his  manner,  that  she  was  completely  won  from 
the  half-doubting  and  faintly  hostile  attitude  of  self- 
defence  to  which  she  had  striven  to  school  herself  for 
the  last  ten  days. 

He  seemed  to  realize  her  confidence,  for  he  said,  im- 
pulsively,— 

"  It  has  seemed  to  me  a  perfect  age  since  the  last  time 
I  sat  beside  you  and  told  you  of  the  anxiety  which  had 
just  begun  to  press  on  me,  and  which  has  become  so 
heavy  since  then  that  at  times  I  have  hardly  known  how 
to  bear  it !"  He  paused  and  heaved  a  deep  sigh. 

Nathalie  was  unaccountably  moved.  She  felt  a  great 
rush  of  sympathy  for  him  in  his  mysterious  trial,  although 
she  could  not  guess  its  nature.  Rashly,  perhaps,  she 
determined  to  trust  him  come  what  would,  and  in  return 
to  make  him  trust  her.  It  was  a  bold  resolve,  in  the 
face  of  all  the  circumstantial  evidence  which  had  accu- 
mulated against  him,  one  such  as  many  a  woman  has 
lived  to  regret,  but  then  Nathalie  was  not  only  a  brave 
girl  morally,  but  one  who  had  been  carefully  guarded 
from  all  evil  knowledge  of  the  world.  She  was  also 
ignorant  as  yet  of  the  crowning  circumstance  of  Mrs. 
Henderson's  flight,  although  she  had  heard  Mr.  Led- 
yard acknowledge  unhesitatingly  to  having  seen  her 
that  very  morning. 

How,  when  he  had  been  supposed  to  be  in  New  York 
or  not  yet  returned  from  there,  during  the  hours  of  the 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  30! 

morning  service,  he  could  possibly  have  managed  to  do 
this,  was  one  of  the  questions  which  had  been  puzzling 
her  brain  that  evening.  The  other  was  as  to  the  tele- 
gram. What  could  those  terrible  words  mean  ?  She 
was  determined  that  she  would  find  out;  that  if  Mil 
lard  Henderson  really  wrote  them  in  earnest,  as  seemed 
too  probable,  she  would  try  to  avert  a  meeting  between 
these  two  men.  Indeed,  she  had  taken  possession  of  the 
strange  and  insulting  message  for  no  other  purpose. 

"  By  the  bye,"  said  Ledyard,  suddenly,  "  did  not 
Cushman  say  something  of  your  having  a  telegram 
which  came  to  him  by  mistake  for  me  ?  I  had  almost 
forgotten  to  ask  you  for  it.  Do  you  know  whom  it  is 
from?" 

"  I  have  not  answered  your  other  question  yet,"  re- 
turned Nathalie,  evasively.  "  You  asked  me  whether  I 
had  had  anything  to  trouble  me  since  you  went  away  ? 
I  have  been  very  much  troubled  about  you."  She  was 
so  anxious  to  keep  this  message  from  him  until  she 
knew  more  of  the  facts  that  she  did  not  stop  to  think, 
or  take  time  to  realize  all  that  the  betrayal  of  her  own 
interest  in  the  matter  might  imply. 

"  About  me !"  His  eyes  flashed  into  hers  that  same 
look  of  radiant  surprise  with  which  they  had  greeted  her 
once  before.  "  How,  about  me  ?"  he  asked,  breathlessly. 

"  First  about  the  dreadful  reports  which  got  in  circu- 
lation before  you  went  away,  then  at  what  you  yourself 
told  me,  that  you  have  just  referred  to,  but  would  not 
explain.  Then  at  a  very  strange  note,  which  chance 
threw  in  my  hands,  from  Mrs.  Henderson,  of  which  I 
read  nothing  of  the  contents,  of  course,  but  I  could  not 
help  seeing  the  beginning,  where  she  addressed  you 
familiarly  by  your  Christian  name.  And  last  of  all  by 
hearing  you  say  to  Mr.  Neil  this  afternoon,  as  I  could 
not  avoid  doing,  that  you  had  seen  Mrs.  Henderson, 
who  must  have  been  at.Fernwood,  this  very  morning, 
when  every  one  supposed  you  to  be  in  New  York !" 

Richard  smiled,  a  trifle  sadly,  and  then  said,  seriously, 
"  Do  you  think  that  I  was  not  really  in  New  York  ?" 

26 


302  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

"  Of  course  not." 

"  What,  then  ?" 

"  I  do  not  understand." 

"  I  cannot  explain.     Please  give  me  my  telegram." 

"  You  mean  that  you  will  not  explain  !  There  is  no 
hurry  about  the  telegram,"  she  added ;  "  it  is  only  to 
ask  you  to  do  something.  Do  you  want  to  know  what 
I  really  think  of  your  conduct  ?" 

"  More  than  anything  else  in  the  world,"  he  declared 
with  fervor ;  "  but  first  tell  me,  was  that  message  from 
Mrs.  Henderson  or  about  her?" 

Nathalie  laughed  at  this,  a  trifle  unnaturally.  Why,  if 
Ledyard  were  in  earnest,  as  she  felt  all  the  time  that  he 
was  in  spite  of  her  assumed  levity,  why  should  he  be 
anxious  about  this  other  woman  ?  She  would  not  listen 
to  the  inner  voice  that  asked  this  question,  but  answered, 

gayly  — 

"  Well,  no ;  it  was  not  from  Mrs.  Henderson,  and  I 
hope  not  about  her.  Now  as  to  what  I  think,  it  is  this  f 
You  have  allowed  yourself  to  be  placed  in  a  false  posi- 
tion in  order  to  shield  some  one  who  is  really  to  blame." 

"  That  is  not  exactly  true,"  replied  Richard. 

"  Is  it  not  true  that  you  have  been  misrepresented  by 
appearances  ?  Have  you  not  been  trying  to  do  right  ?" 

"  In  my  way,  I  have,  of  course,  and  I  am  deeply  grate- 
ful to  you  for  believing  it  in  the  very  teeth  of  calumny, 
but  I  may  not  say  more."  He  rose  from  his  seat  as  he 
spoke,  and  Nathalie  rose  too  in  dismay.  Should  she 
let  him  go  without  the  message  ? 

"  At  least  you  have  acknowledged  that  it  is  calumny" 
she  said.  "  So  far  I  am  triumphant." 

"  Why  should  you  care  ?"  he  asked,  with  emotion. 

Nathalie  hesitated.  "Because  I  hate  injustice!"  she 
said,  virtuously. 

"  And  I  love  you !"  he  returned,  drawing  himself  up 
to  his  full  height  and  crossing  his  arms  on  his  breast. 
"  I  did  not  mean  to  tell  you  so,  but  /  cannot  help  it. 
Have  I  any  hope  ?" 

She  did  not  answer.     They  were  standing  opposite 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  303 

to  one  another  now  in  the  veranda.  The  tardy  moon 
had  crept  round  impertinently  until  it  was  looking  di- 
rectly into  Nathalie's  face,  and  although  her  eyelids  had 
swept  suddenly  down  so  as  to  hide  the  expression  of 
her  eyes,  there  was  a  smile  of  tremulous  gladness  on 
her  lips  which  betrayed  her  to  Ledyard's  joyous,  in- 
credulous eyes. 

"  Do  you  love  me,  dear  Nathalie  ?"  he  asked,  drawing 
nearer  as  he  spoke.  "  Can  you  ?  Will  you  ?"  he  whis- 
pered, gazing  at  her  with  entreaty,  still  half  in  doubt. 

Her  answer  was  so  faint  that  it  might  have  been  mis- 
taken for  a  sigh,  but  the  next  moment  his  lips  were  close 
to  hers.  He  was  holding  her  in  his  arms.  He  had  laid 
her  lovely  head  upon  his  shoulder  and  was  kissing  the 
soft  locks  of  her  hair,  that  looked  like  a  halo  about  her 
face  in  the  silver  light.  His  surprise  and  delight  at 
finding  that  she  cared  for  him  were  so  great  that  for  a 
time  he  forgot  all  else.  He  only  remembered  that  he 
had  not  dared  to  hope  that  she  could  love  him  as  he 
knew  that  he  loved  her  almost  from  the  moment  they 
first  met.  He  no  longer  thought  of  her  worldly  position 
as  a  barrier,  and  the  advantages  she  was  likely  to  have 
had  of  opportunity,  or  her  probable  taste  for  society  that 
would  find  little  gratification  in  his  humble  life  of  work. 
Even  had  he  suspected  that  she  was  an  heiress,  had  he 
known  of  all  the  admirers  she  had  had  during  the  pre- 
vious winter,  it  is  not  likely  that  he  would  have  been 
less  mad.  He  was  swept  for  the  time  being  beyond  his 
bearings,  beyond  the  power  of  reasoning,  or  the  dictates 
of  common  sense  and  cold,  hard  judgment.  He  only 
knew  that  she  had  said  she  loved  him.  He  only  realized 
in  a  moment  of  intensest  joy  that  their  happiness  was 
mutual,  and  was  conscious,  as  a  drowning  man  might 
be,  of  all  his  past  life  that  seemed  to  lead  up  to  this  one 
point,  while  all  his  days  to  come,  on  which  he  had 
counted  for  their  probable  fruit,  seemed  vanishing  into 
smoke,  as  if  they  were  nothing  and  would  bring  nothing 
without  the  crowning  good  which  he  only  now  might 
grasp ! 


304  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

And  Nathalie  yielded  to  his  caresses  for  a  while,  thrilled 
with  the  wonder  and  the  sweetness  of  being  loved  by 
one  who  had  seemed  to  her  so  far  above  her  in  all  the 
qualities  she  prized  most  dearly,  that  she  had  deemed 
her  own  love  presumptuous  at  some  times,  at  others 
hopeless.  But  a  reaction  came  to  all  his  gladness,  and 
it  came  first  to  her  when  memory,  temporarily  lulled  to 
sleep  by  happiness,  awoke  and  roused  within  her  a  pro- 
phetic sense  of  approaching  evil,  a  certainty  of  misfortune 
closing  in  about  them,  which  lent  an  element  of  tragedy 
to  the  very  extremity  of  joy. 

There  were  her  mother  and  her  worldly  half-sisters 
already  holding  up  shadowy  fingers  of  disapproval  in 
her  fancy  at  Nathalie's  engagement  to  this  obscure  Mr. 
Ledyard  from  no  one  knew  where !  What  did  they 
know  of  the  transcendent  eloquence,  the  rare  devotion 
to  his  calling,  the  lofty  views,  the  all-conquering  enthu- 
siasm, the  irresistible  charm  of  the  village  pastor,  in 
which  qualities  she  believed  so  firmly?  There  was 
Cynthia  even,  who,  much  as  she  liked  and  admired  Mr. 
Ledyard,  had  tried  to  warn  her  only  the  night  before, 
and,  whatever  she  might  say  in  gentleness  through  pity 
for  Nathalie's  weakness,  would  be  sure  to  accuse  her  in 
her  own  calm,  strong  heart,  so  the  younger  sister  thought, 
of  acting  rashly,  ignorantly,  without  due  deliberation  or 
regard  for  herself  and  others  ! 

Then  there  was  that  fatal  message  in  Nathalie's  pocket, 
the  meaning  of  which  was  so  mysterious  !  Did  she  dare 
to  keep  it  from  her  lover  any  longer  ?  Had  she  any 
right  to  do  so  without  knowing  that  which  he  had  re- 
fused to  tell?  Would  she  have  him  branded  as  a 
coward?  Surely  not!  The  insulting  word  filled  her 
with  rage.  How  might  it  be  if  he  never  received  the 
message,  could  any  one  accuse  him  for  not  obeying  it  ? 
She  shook  her  head  at  this  suggestion.  It  would  require 
to  be  proved  that  he  had  not  received  it,  and  how  could 
that  be?  Did  not  Mr.  Cushman  know  of  its  having 
come  ?  Had  she  not  taken  charge  of  it  with  the  osten- 
sible purpose  of  giving  it  to  Mr.  Ledyard?  Had  he 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  30$ 

not  been  told  by  Mr.  Cushman  of  its  arrival,  and  come 
to  see  her  with  the  apparent  intention  of  obtaining  it  as 
one  of  his  objects  ? 

Just  at  this  moment  Ledyard  spoke.  "  Dearest," 
he  said,  "  it  is  growing  late.  I  must  not  linger  longer. 
With  your  sister  away  it  is  not  right,  hard  though  it  be 
to  part.  Give  me  that  telegram,"  he  added,  gently, 
"  for  it  may  be  something  to  which  I  should  attend  at 
once,  although  you  did  not  think  it  of  importance." 

At  these  words  her  very  heart  stood  still.  It  wa? 
hard  enough  to  part,  as  he  had  said,  but  to  be  called 
upon  to  deliver  such  a  message  ! 

"  What  if  I  should  refuse  to  give  you  the  telegram 
until  you  make  me  some  further  explanation  ?"  she  asked, 
archly.  "  Have  I  not  a  right  to  ask  it  ?" 

"  You  have,  indeed.  There  is  no  limit  to  your  right, 
or  to  the  confidence  that  I  would  give  you  if  I  could. 
The  restriction  is  only  in  what  /  have  a  right  to  say  to 
you  or  any  one,"  said  Ledyard. 

"  You  are  sure  that  it  is  not  a  question  of  what  you 
want  to  say  ?" 

"  Quite  sure,  for  you  are  dearer  to  me  than  any  other 
thing  on  earth ;  and  do  you  not  believe  that  I  would  tell 
you  if  I  could?" 

"  Perhaps  ;  but  must  you  see  this  message  ?" 

"  I  must,  indeed.  You  have  not  even  told  me  from 
whom  it  may  be.  Are  you  not  rather  a  tyrant  ?" 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?"  she  asked,  contritely.  "  Well,  it 
is  from  Lieutenant  Henderson.  Come  into  the  lighted 
room,  where  you  can  read  it." 

"From  Henderson!  Oh,  let  me  see  it  at  once!"  he 
exclaimed,  anxiously,  as  she  led  the  way  into  the  little 
parlor.  Then  as  he  took  it  from  her  trembling  hand, 
opened  and  read  it  by  the  light  of  the  shaded  lamp 
which  Marjory  had  placed  on  the  table,  his  face  changed. 
Nathalie  had  never  seen  it  wear  an  expression  of  such 
-pride  or  so  much  restrained  indignation. 

"  Surely  you  had  no  thought,  my  love,  of  withholding 
such  a  message  as  this  ?"  he  inquired,  proudly. 
u  26* 


306  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

She  did  not  answer,  but  watched  him  crumple  it  up 
angrily  and  stuff  it  into  his  waistcoat-pocket  before  he 
took  his  hat  and  turned  again  to  her,  evidently  to  take 
leave. 

"  Must  you  go  ?"  she  asked,  imploringly. 

"  I  must,  indeed."  He  glanced  nervously  towards  the 
clock.  It  was  ten  minutes  after  ten.  "  Good-night,  dear 
Nathalie,"  he  said,  gravely. 

"  Oh,  if  you  knew  the  misery  of  being  left  thus  in 
ignorance,  in  solitude,  and  in  suspense !"  she  cried,  des- 
perately. 

"  Do  not  be  worried,  dear  heart.  Nothing  will  happen 
to  me,  and  to-morrow  I  promise  to  explain  everything. 
It  is  only  a  misunderstanding,  after  all, — this  part  of  it 
at  least,"  he  added,  hurriedly. 

"  What  part  of  it  ?  You  cannot  make  me  believe  that 
you  are  not  angry,  or  that  you  are  not  going  to  meet 
another  angry  man !  I  can  read  the  danger  in  your 
eyes." 

"  Come,  sweet  love,  be  brave !"  he  answered,  tenderly, 
as  she  clung  to  him  in  mortal  fear. 

"  I  know  he  will  kill  you,  or  you  him !"  she  cried. 

"  Nonsense  !  There  is  no  cause.  It  is  all  a  mistake. 
Come,  let  me  go,  dear.  There  is  no  danger.  Do  I  look 
like  one  about  to  commit  murder  ?" 

He  pressed  her  in  his  arms  with  a  long  parting  kiss, 
then  placed  her  in  a  chair  beside  the  window  near  which 
they  were  standing. 

"  I  understand  all  your  anxiety,  my  most  dear  Nath- 
alie," he  whispered,  "  and  now  that  I  realize  that  after 
you  knew  me  to  have  been  thus  taunted  you  yet  gave 
me  your  heart,  I  am  doubly  grateful  for  your  generous 
love  and  trust." 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  307 


CHAPTER    XL. 

Ir  was  curious  that  Mrs.  Henderson  never  distinctly 
realized  that  she  had  left  her  home,  her  husband,  and 
her  child  of  her  own  determination,  casting  aside  with 
them  all  that  was  most  dear  to  her,  until  the  moment 
that  she  was  waving  a  farewell  on  the  platform  at  Dun- 
stable  junction.  She  had  been  too  much  occupied  with 
the  necessity  for  immediate  action,  with  the  impossibility 
of  remaining  another  night  at  Fernwood  if  she  would 
not  face  that  which  she  dreaded  more  than  death,  to  be 
alive  to  the  full  meaning  of  what  she  did,  or  to  see  or 
hear  any  material  thing  about  her,  even  to  feel  bodily 
pain. 

Great  grief,  like  intense  joy,  is  narrowing  in  its  effect 
upon  the  intellect,  or  the  perception  of  those  things  which 
surround  us,  as  long  as  its  pressure  urges  us  to  action  ; 
but  once  the  time  when  it  is  possible  to  do  is  past,  and 
all  is  done  which  devotion  or  ecstasy  or  passion  had  dic- 
tated, so  that  there  are  no  alternatives  but  resignation 
or  despair,  the  smallest  thing  about  us  begins  to  intrude 
itself  on  our  reluctant  attention.  It  may  challenge  us  in 
the  form  of  some  petty  annoyance,  it  may  bid  us  look 
on  a  more  bitter  trial  than  our  own  just  when  we  would 
hug  our  sorrow  or  magnify  it,  as  we  will,  and  long  to  be 
at  peace.  Sometimes  relentless  association  stirs  in  the 
magic  boots  of  fancy,  by  which  we  travel  over  leagues 
of  territory,  but  now  made  desolate  at  a  single  leap,  or 
fly  backward  or  forward  over  years  or  centuries  as  with 
one  flap  of  Time's  swift  wings,  seeing  no  familiar  face  to 
comfort,  no  faintest  ray  of  hope ! 

Thus  it  was  that  Posey,  to  whom  the  night  journey  to 
New  York,  the  arrival  long  after  midnight  in  a  great 
city,  the  questioning  faces  of  the  sleepy  clerk  and  surly 
driver,  or  the  impertinent  grin  of  the  hotel  porter,  had 
been  as  nothing,  unnoticed  and  uncared  for ;  who  was 


308  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

hardly  conscious  of  the  shape,  or  of  a  single  article  of 
furniture  in  the  bedroom  in  which  she  had  not  touched 
the  bed  the  night  before,  unless  mayhap  the  general 
form  of  the  marble-topped  table  on  which  she  had  writ- 
ten her  letter,  suddenly  awoke  when  the  letter  was  no 
longer  in  her  keeping,  after  she  had  said  good-bye  to 
Richard  Ledyard  and  the  train  which  was  bearing  him 
and  it  back  to  Dundaff  had  left  the  station  at  which  she 
was  expected  to  await  the  train  for  Dunstable,  her  girl- 
hood's home ! 

She  found  that  she  had  begun  to  think,  to  see  things 
about  her.  She  even  wondered  in  a  strange,  impersonal 
sort  of  way,  without  taking  much  interest  ir.  the  matter, 
where  she  might  be  going,  and  how  it  happened  that  she 
was  there.  Then  she  was  conscious  of  a  violent  pain  in 
her  head,  and  that  her  limbs  felt  stiff  and  weary  as  though 
she  had  grown  suddenly  old,  but  she  could  not  keep  her 
attention  upon  herself.  Her  mind  went  wandering  off, 
aimlessly,  to  anything  and  everything  she  saw. 

She  noticed  in  detail  a  family  party  waiting  as  she 
was  for  a  train  to  take  them  thence,  only  that  they  were 
bound  for  one  of  the  large  cities  through  which  she  had 
just  passed  and  had  come  from  such  a  quiet  hamlet  as 
was  her  destination. 

There  were  a  man,  a  woman,  a  baby,  and  two  boys, 
who  were  bent  on  taking  with  them  their  favorite  pet, 
that  looked  something  between  a  dog  and  a  monkey, 
but  might  be  classified  as  a  puppy.  One  of  the  boys, 
the  older,  had  it  buttoned  up  inside  his  reefer  for  fear  it 
should  be  seen  by  the  conductor  of  the  train  they  were 
expecting,  on  which  dogs  were  not  allowed  except  as 
baggage.  The  other  lad,  who  seemed  wiser  if  younger, 
feared  the  dog  would  be  suffocated,  and  thought  this 
would  be  almost  as  distressing  to  it  as  a  separation  from 
its  master. 

Finally  they  compromised  on  the  luncheon-basket 
which  the  woman  had  brought  from  home  heavily  loaded, 
while  her  husband  carried  the  baby, — not  an  uncom- 
non  division  of  labor  in  our  free  country.  Evidently  the 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  309 

chief  fear  of  the  whole  party  at  setting  forth  on  their 
journey  had  been  that  of  starvation,  but  the  time  of 
waiting  at  this  their  first  stopping-place  being  tedious, 
and  the  smell  of  cold  corn-bread  and  bacon  beinsr  ren- 

o 

dered  more  appetizing  by  the  fresh  air,  they  forgot  their 
fears  for  the  future  in  the  enjoyment  of  a  premature 
luncheon. 

The  life  of  the  puppy  was  saved  by  its  being  allowed 
to  put  its  head  out  to  eat  something  and  its  refusing  to 
do  so,  while  on  the  happily-achieved  emptying  of  the 
covered  basket  he  was  briskly  transferred  from  the  inside 
of  his  master's  jacket  to  this  more  airy  prison,  with  his 
confinement  in  which  it  yet  appeared  more  difficult  to 
reconcile  him.  But  the  sound  of  the  approaching  train 
striking  terror  to  the  hearts  of  his  jailers,  they  hastily 
shut  him  in,  a  wriggling  bundle  of  legs  and  tail,  at  the 
imminent  risk  of  breaking  some  of  these  appendages 
with  the  sharp  edge  of  the  descending  lid. 

Then  they  both  scrambled  on  to  the  rear  car  just  in 
time,  almost  on  top  of  their  mother  and  the  baby,  who 
had  been  pushed  on  first  by  the  hard-working  father. 
Thus  they  all  went  off,  borne  by  the  great  steam  monster, 
which  shrieked  and  spluttered  fiercely  as  it  vanished, 
leaving  only  a  whiff  of  smoke  behind. 

After  this  everything  was  quiet  for  a  long  while. 
There  were  fewer  travellers  than  usual,  the  day  being 
Sunday,  when  there  is  a  feeling  abroad  that  it  is  not 
canny  to  travel.  Even  the  man  who  carried  the  baby 
had  thought  it  necessary  to  explain  to  the  station-master 
that  he  was  going  that  day  because  he  could  only  get 
work  in  the  city  if  he  were  there  early  on  the  Monday 
morning. 

Posey  heard  and  saw  all  these  things  as  she  sat  at  one 
side  of  the  little  square  waiting-room  and  stared  hope- 
lessly at  the  huge  rusty  iron  stove  in  the  centre,  that  she 
remembered,  as  it  seemed  to  her,  always.  How  hid- 
eously ugly  it  was!  and  yet  it  must  have  been  kept  for 
ornament  in  summer,  one  would  suppose,  as  it  was  only 
of  use  in  winter. 


3  TO  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

By  and  by  the  train  from  the  nearest  market-town 
came  along,  and  paused  in  a  sociable,  easy  manner  to 
take  passengers  before  proceeding  on  its  leisurely  way 
to  Dunstable.  Should  she  get  into  it  or  not?  She 
wondered  what  she  was  about  to  do,  much  as  if  she  had 
been  speculating  over  the  movements  of  a  stranger,  but 
finally  decided  that  she  was  more  willing  to  do  that  than 
anything  else,  and  got  in.  Individual  adventure  seemed 
to  have  grown  strangely  unimportant  to  her.  The  chief 
object  for  which  she  was  struggling  was  to  avoid  seeing 
her  husband's  face.  Yet  it  was  always  before  her,  she 
found,  unless  she  made  a  great  effort  to  concentrate  her 
attention  on  something  besides.  It  did  not  look  natural, 
of  course,  not  as  she  knew  it  and  loved  it,  but  altered  as 
it  had  seemed  when  he  came  to  her  with  that  note  yes- 
terday, as  it  would  look  when  he  had  read  her  letter ! 
Oh,  if  it  would  but  look  less  stern  and  bitter !  If  it 
would  but  hold  one  ray  of  pity,  of  tenderness,  how- 
soever mixed  with  disapproval,  even  with  contempt! 
He  had  been,  she  told  herself,  so  dear  a  husband  to  her, 
and  ah !  she  had  loved  him  so,  and  it  was  all  over— over 
over — over. 

The  monotonous  rattle  and  irregular  motion  of  the 
car,  shaking  from  side  to  side,  as  it  passed  along  the 
badly-laid  rails  of  the  rough  rural  track,  seemed  to  take 
up  the  word  and  repeat  it  indefinitely.  There  were  but 
two  cars  to  the  train,  and  but  three  other  persons  in  the 
one  in  which  she  sat.  They  were  all  solitary  travellers 
like  herself,  yet  two  of  them  seemed  inclined  to  socia- 
bility. They  made  acquaintance  and  struck  up  a  lively 
conversation,  which  increased  her  headache.  Being  men, 
they  talked  of  politics.  The  woman  who  was  her  third 
companion  was  very  silent,  and  Posey  soon  discovered 
that  she  was  asleep. 

It  was  three  o'clock  when  they  reached  Dunstable, 
the  same  hour  at  which  the  express  train  in  which 
Richard  Ledyard  had  pursued  his  way  was  due  at  Dun- 
daff,  after  passing  over  three  or  four  times  the  distance 
traversed  by  her,  but  she  was  entirely  indifferent  to  the 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  31 1 

delay.  Time  no  longer  seemed  of  value.  It  was  a 
beautiful  afternoon.  The  sun  was  shining  with  unwonted 
splendor.  A  soft  breeze  fresh  from  the  sea  greeted  her 
as  she  stepped  from  the  train,  but  it  brought  no  balm, 
no  refreshment,  no  comfort  to  her,  in  her  despair. 

She  knew  well  the  wooded  path  she  had  to  traverse 
from  the  village  to  the  parsonage,  but  it  looked  strange 
to-day,  and  when  she  reached  her  girlhood's  home  it 
seemed  suddenly  unfamiliar.  There  it  stood,  a  square 
white-painted  wooden  house,  quite  dazzling  in  the  sun- 
shine, with  prosaic  old  commonplace  green  shutters  and 
that  particular  expression  of  having  looked  the  same 
always,  which  she  remembered  so  exactly,  and  yet  it 
seemed  different.  It  was  difficult  to  define  what  had 
happened  to  it  and  its  surroundings,  otherwise  than  that 
they  no  longer  appeared  to  be  tragically  dull  and  color- 
less as  they  once  had  impressed  her  in  her  youthful  im- 
patience, but  almost  seemed  to  her  unreal  and  ghostly. 

She  shuddered,  and  gave  a  great  sigh,  which  was  half 
a  sob  now,  as  she  stood  before  the  door,  while  her  heart 
swelled  nigh  to  bursting  with  its  lonely  sorrow,  but  she 
would  not  go  in  to  meet  the  love  the  house  held  for  her. 
An  instinct  warned  her  against  the  softening  influence 
of  her  mother's  eyes.  What  if  she  should  ask  her  about 
Wilfred?  She  dared  not  trust  her  hard  resolution  to 
the  melting  touch  of  sympathy,  and,  after  pausing  for 
some  length  of  time  within  a  few  yards  of  the  door, 
she  turned  off,  following  a  path  which  led  to  a  grove  of 
scrubby  pine-trees  behind  the  house. 

It  was  here  that  Henderson  had  first  kissed  her  in 
the  twilight,  on  the  eve  of  his  departure  with  Neil  from 
D unstable  after'  the  boyish  love-making  that  meant  so 
little  with  him  and  so  much  to  her.  She  remembered 
it  all  quite  well,  and  how  she  moped  about  the  place 
when  he  was  gone,  and  how  the  simple  homely  life  that 
had  been  pleasant  enough  before  seemed  utterly  unbear- 
able until  Mrs.  Pelham  had  come  and  taken  her  away. 
She  wished  she  had  not  gone  upon  the  stage,  and  felt 
more  sure  than  ever  that  she  would  not  have  done  so 


?  12  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

but  that  her  father  had  commanded  her  to  return  to  that 
eventless  life  filled  with  a  hopeless  longing.  Yes,  it  was 
all  her  father's  fault  she  decided,  and  she  had  been  very 
hardly  treated  in  the  world,  and  she  was  desperately 
sorry  for  herself.  To  any  misfortune  which  she  might 
have  chanced  to  bring  on  any  one  else  she  was  either 
unconscious  or  indifferent. 

As  she  sat  down  on  a  mound  of  sand  among  the  pine- 
trees  she  did  not  think  of  her  husband's  desolated  home, 
of  all  her  child  might  suffer  from  the  want  of  her  care  and 
love,  the  idea  that  with  many  women  in  her  position 
would  have  been  paramount.  She  was  saved  the  inde- 
cision which  might  have  risen  from  conflicting  motives 
in  another  nature,  as  well  as  the  forms  of  suffering 
which  would  have  afflicted  a  more  sympathetic  soul,  by 
the  simplicity  of  her  incentive,  which  was,  as  it  always 
had  been,  to  do  what  she  wanted  to  do  herself,  at  any 
cost.  Let  no  one  imagine,  however,  that  on  this  account 
her  lot  was  less  difficult,  for  it  is,  after  all,  with  mental  as 
it  is  with  physical  suffering,  one  can  only  endure  a  given 
amount  of  it,  and  one  form  shuts  out  another. 

Just  now  Posey  was  filled  with  memories  of  her  girl- 
hood. The  spot  to  which  her  wandering  feet  had 
brought  her  was  one  where  she  used  to  play  with  her 
older  brother  when  he  came  during  his  school  vacations 
to  Dunstable,  while  Posey  was  yet  a  very  little  child,  and 
later  with  her  younger  brothers  and  sister.  As  she  sat 
in  this  well-remembered  grove,  the  slight  elevation  of 
which  enabled  one  to  see  the  ocean  spread  out  peace- 
fully in  the  sunshine  while  its  waters  washed  up  in  min- 
iature waves  on  the  sandy  shore,  a  great  desire  came 
upon  her  to  once  more  see  her  mother.  She  wished 
for  one  last  look  at  her,  she  told  herself,  but  she  would 
not  run  the  risk  of  being  seen  by  her.  She  determined 
to  wait  where  she  was  until  it  should  be  dark,  so  that 
she  could  look  in  upon  her  and  see  without  being  seen. 

The  soft  sighing  of  the  wind  among  the  pine-trees, 
the  distant  breaking  of  the  waves,  and  the  great  physical 
fatigue  which  she  had  undergone,  gradually  conspired  to 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  313 

lull  her  to  sleep,  and  with  her  weary  head  against  the 
trunk  of  a  tall  pine  she  temporarily  forgot  her  grief. 

The  sun  was  gone  when  she  awoke,  and  the  moon 
had  come  instead,  making  strange  fantastic  shadows  all 
about  her  from  the  black-stemmed  pines.  She  was  chilled 
with  the  night  air,  and  shivered,  but  her  first  act  was  to 
feel  in  her  bosom  nervously  for  a  little  vial  which  had  been 
there  since  she  arrived  in  New  York  and  visited  the 
druggist  the  night  before.  It  would  be  well  to  end  all 
this,  she  said  to  herself.  Then  she  recalled  the  thought 
with  which  she  had  fallen  asleep,  and  rose,  and  cautiously, 
stealthily,  crept  near  the  house. 

A  ruddy  glow  might  be  seen  as  she  approached, 
thrown  by  the  light  in  the  kitchen.  Posey  passed  round 
to  the  front,  where  the  evening  lamps  were  lighted.  She 
knew  well  what  her  mother  would  be  doing  at  about 
this  hour  of  a  Sunday  evening,  and  where  to  find  her. 
She  silently  approached  the  room  that  had  once  been 
her  father's  study,  and  climbed  on  to  a  wooden  seat  be- 
neath the  window,  where  a  bed  of  sage  and  mignonette 
was  sweetening  the  air.  Thus  she  peeped  into  the 
lighted  room  through  the  half-open  slats  of  the  shutter, 
inside  of  which  the  glass  was  closed. 

Her  mother  was  seated  by  the  table.  She  and  Posey 's 
younger  sister  and  two  little  brothers  were  taking  turns 
in  reading  from  the  Bible.  They  seemed  deeply  ab- 
sorbed. Of  course  they  little  dreamed  of  the  sad,  cold 
face,  with  its  look  of  bitterness  and  desperation,  which 
was  pressed  against  the  blind  just  outside;  the  while 
with  so  much  between,  Posey  could  only  hear  the  mur- 
mur of  voices  and  nothing  of  what  was  said.  She  only 
knew  that  they  were  in  peace  while  she  was  in  torment. 
She  only  realized  that  a  gulf  yawned  between  herself 
and  the  once  innocent  life  which  she  had  hated  and  fled. 


BROKEN  CHORDS. 


CHAPTER   XLI. 

MEANWHILE,  Millard  Henderson  arrived  in  New  York 
about  five  hours  after  his  wife  had  left  there.  He  lirove 
at  once  to  the  hotel  of  which  Cynthia  had  give)  him 
the  address,  and  asked  for  Richard  Ledyard.  H  ;  was 
told  that  Mr.  Ledyard  had  left  that  morning.  He  nsked 
if  he  had  any  one  with  him,  and  was  answered  that  he 
went  away  in  company  with  a  lady.  Feeling  sick  at 
heart,  he  inquired  the  description  of  the  lady,  whether 
she  had  come  with  Mr.  Ledyard,  etc.,  only  to  learn  that 
the  lady  had  arrived  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  and,  on 
the  night  porter's  being  summoned,  to  hear  his  wife's 
dress  and  bonnet  described  exactly,  while  without  further 
questioning  the  fellow  went  on  to  detail  the  scene  which 
he  had  witnessed  when  summoned  by  Mr.  Ledyard  to 
bring  a  glass  of  water  to  his  fainting  companion  that 
morning. 

Searching  the  hotel  register,  it  was  discovered  that 
Posey  had  written  her  name  as  Mrs.  Periwinkle,  already, 
as  it  seemed  to  Millard,  casting  aside  his.  name,  as  she 
had  done  his  wishes  and  protection.  Could  any  case 
seem  clearer?  Had  he  not  the  best  possible  proof  of 
her  unworthiness  ?  And  what  was  he  to  think  of 
PJchard  Ledyard  ?  What  words  could  be  too  black  to 
paint  so  arrant  a  knave,  so  hypocritical  a  blasphemer  of 
God  and  of  man's  highest  instincts,  such  a  desecrator 
of  good  faith,  of  honor,  of  decency  ? 

All  these  and  many  more  such  bitter  thoughts  and 
indignant  expressions  flashed  through  the  brain  of  Mil- 
lard Henderson  as  he  listened  to  the  malicious  negro, 
who  half  suspected  the  fact  that  he  was  speaking  to  the 
husband  of  the  lady  whose  character  he  was  doing  his 
best  to  blacken.  Yet  Henderson  made  no  sign  of  what 
he  felt,  until  he  surprised  the  fellow  by  suddenly  turning 
upon  him  a  look  of  such  concentrated  fury  as  effectually 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  315 

silenced  his  evil  tongue,  and,  flinging  him  a  silver  coin, 
strode  out  of  the  hotel  with  a  demon  in  the  place  of  the 
calm  and  reasonable  spirit  which  usually  governed  his 
judgment  and  his  actions. 

He  had  forgotten  that  there  was  no  proof  that  Mr. 
Ledyard  had  planned  or  intended  to  decoy  his  wife 
away ;  he  had  forgotten  that  he  knew  nothing  as  to  what 
course  he  had  advised  her  to  pursue,  or  what  motive 
had  induced  her  to  seek  him.  The  theory  of  Posey's 
possible  insanity,  with  which  he  had  been  so  filled  that 
morning,  had  somehow  all  faded  from  his  memory.  His 
mind  had  become  as  a  blank  to  every  impression  except 
the  all-mastering  conviction  which  possessed  him,  that 
he  had  been  deeply,  shamefully  wronged. 

He  felt  it  his  duty  to  follow  as  quickly  as  possible  on 
the  track  of  his  reckless  wife,  and  to  this  end  he  was 
obliged  to  acquire  all  available  information;  but  the 
farther  he  proceeded  in  the  graceless  inquiry  the  more 
he  hated  his  task,  and  the  stronger  grew  his  indignation 
against  her  partner  in  what  he  had  already  come  in  his 
thoughts  to  condemn  as  the  most  shameless  of  intrigues. 

It  was  easy  to  ascertain  that  the  two  people  he  wished 
to  trace  had  left  their  hotel  for  a  certain  station  with  the 
declared  purpose  of  taking  a  certain  through  train  for 
Washington.  It  was  a  little  more  difficult  to  learn 
whether  they  had  really  gone  to  this  station  and  taken 
this  train,  to  conjecture  at  what  precise  point  on  the  road 
they  had  intended  to  stop,  or  to  imagine  where  they 
might  be  now.  At  length,  by  dint  of  describing  them, 
however,  and  minutely  questioning  porters,  station-mas- 
ters, and  last,  but  not  least,  the  ticket-vender,  he  was 
convinced  that  they  had  done  what  they  said  they  would 
do,  and  even  succeeded  in  making  the  agent  remember 
that  one  ticket,  at  least,  had  been  purchased  for  Dundaff : 
he  was  not  sure  about  others.  Henderson  was  not  long 
in  concluding  that  wherever  Posey  might  have  taken 
refuge,  which  the  eccentricity  of  her  late  conduct  ren- 
dered it  impossible  to  determine  just  yet,  Mr.  Ledyard 
was  certainly  likely  to  have  returned  to  DundafF,  hoping 


316  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

by  so  doing  to  divert  suspicion  from  himself.  Millard 
bought  his  own  ticket  accordingly,  and  occupied  most 
of  the  time  before  the  next  train  started  in  sending  the 
ferocious  telegram  which  caused  such  a  profound  com- 
motion in  the  gentle  breast  of  Mr.  Cushman,  by  whom 
it  was  first  received. 

Millard  had  very  little  hope  that  the  message  would 
either  find  the  true  delinquent  or  be  regarded  by  him, 
for  he  argued  that  the  person  who  could  betray  his  con- 
fidence and  his  honor  with  such  barefaced  imposture  as 
Ledyard  had  employed  was  likely  to  be  a  "  sneak"  and 
a  "  coward,"  as  well  as  a  "  scoundrel ;"  and  as  such  he 
denounced  him  while  he  consumed  a  hasty  luncheon. 
It  was,  however,  an  undoubted  if  a  painful  satisfaction 
to  have  given  so  much  vent  as  the  telegram  afforded  to 
his  overwrought  feelings,  and  a  first  step  towards  his 
object  of  finding  Mrs.  Henderson  to  find  Ledyard,  even 
if  he  had  not  longed  to  meet  and  taunt  him  face  to  face. 
He  said  to  himself  grimly  that  if  Mr.  Ledyard  should 
receive  the  message  it  might  "  render  his  saintly  smile  a 
shade  less  complacent." 

On,  on,  on  rushed  the  train,  carrying  him  back  to  his 
dishonored  roof,  back  to  his  desolate  home,  back  to  his 
forsaken  child,  back  to  his  vengeance !  It  swept  past 
station  after  station,  past  towns  and  villages  and  lonely 
hamlets,  through  bright  fields  and  through  dark  forests, 
between  high  hills  that  shut  out  the  sunshine,  across 
wide  rivers  that  reflected  it  from  daylight  unto  dusk,  and 
then  for  hours  of  faint,  cold  moonlight! 

Sometimes  Millard  sunk  into  a  half-sleep,  only  to  start 
and  waken  suddenly  with  a  chill  sense  of  loneliness  and 
misery. 

It  was  during  this  last  and  longest-drawn-out  portion 
of  his  wretched  journey  that  he  passed  the  station  at 
which  Posey  had  parted  with  Ledyard  that  morning. 

"  D unstable  Junction  !"  shouted  a  brakeman,  and  Hen- 
derson turned  instinctively  towards  the  window.  He 
had  not  been  to  Dunstable  since  that  boyish  excursion 
long  ago  on  which  he  had  first  met  Posey.  She  had 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  317 

held  no  communication  with  her  family  since  their  mar- 
riage until  the  death  of  her  father,  and  on  the  only  occa- 
sion since  then  when  she  had  visited  her  mother  had 
not  been  willing  that  he  should  accompany  her,  as  he 
now  remembered  with  peculiar  bitterness.  Still,  it  was 
natural  that  he  should  associate  the  place  with  her,  and 
no  marvel  that  he  should  have  gazed  out  anxiously  over 
the  cold  moonlit  country  with  a  vague  stirring  of  un- 
easiness lest  she  might  have  sought  shelter  with  her 
mother,  and  he  should  be  missing  his  chief  object  of 
quickly  finding  her,  in  his  impetuous  desire  to  meet  the 
man  who  had  wronged  him  and  to  be  revenged. 

Could  his  eyes  have  pierced  the  mists  of  evening, 
defying  distance  ;  could  his  spirit  have  flown  as  his  mem- 
ory did  to  the  little  fishing-village  of  Dunstable  on  the 
bleak  sea-coast,  where  Posey  that  afternoon  had  stepped 
on  to  the  platform  at  the  station  which  was  the  terminus 
of  the  local  railroad  ;  could  he  have  followed  the  long 
lonely  road  from  the  village  to  the  isolated  parsonage 
as  she  had  done,  the  rest  of  his  life  might  have  been 
different.  As  it  was,  however,  the  train  swept  by  the 
junction  and  carried  him  with  it. 

Little  did  he  dream  of  the  desolate  figure  which  was 
flitting  like  a  ghost  about  the  home  of  her  childhood, 
with  despair  in  her  heart  and  a  mind  possessed  with 
but  one  idea,  which  grew  more  and  more  near  and  ter- 
rible to  herself  with  every  passing  moment.  If  he  had 
done  so,  he  must  have  realized  that,  however  grave  the 
faults  of  his  wife  might  be,  she  was  suffering  enough 
this  day  to  expiate  them  ;  but  he  did  not.  He  was  think- 
ing most  of  Richard  Ledyard,  of  how  shamefully  he 
had  used  him,  of  the  satisfaction  that  it  would  be  to  con- 
front him  and  denounce  him  as  a  hypocrite  and  a  liar, 
face  to  face ! 


3l8  BROKEN  CHORDS. 


CHAPTER   XLII. 

SEATED  in  the  window,  Nathalie  looked  after  Richard 
Ledyard  until  his  form  became  as  a  shadow  and  at  last 
faded  quite  away  in  the  moonlight.  Then  she  leaned 
her  face  on  her  hands,  and  thought  with  the  most  in- 
tense earnestness,  searching  in  her  mind  for  the  hun- 
dredth time  to  find  the  clue  to  the  mystery. 

With  the  strange  half-human  instinct  of  sympathy 
which  one  often  sees  in  intelligent  animals,  old  Neptune 
became  troubled  at  her  attitude,  and  came  to  her  side, 
softly  whining  to  attract  attention,  but  in  vain  until  he 
actually  pressed  his  cold  nose  against  her  hands  after  a 
manner  which  forced  her  to  remove  them,  if  only  to  ad- 
monish him  for  his  interference.  Then  followed  the 
sportive  Buttercup  with  playful  wiles  to  divert  her  into 
an  evening  romp  with  a  ball,  but  Nathalie  was  not  to 
be  moved.  She  was  filled  with  apprehension  which  she 
could  not  throw  off. 

The  wilful  little  kitten,  bent  on  having  its  play,  finally 
enticed  Neptune  into  a  hurdle-race  over  the  furniture 
and  under  it,  in  the  midst  of  which  frolic  it  came  out 
with  a  crumpled  bit  of  paper  from  beneath  the  sofa,  one 
moment  clawing  and  biting  it  vehemently,  the  next 
pushing  it  along  with  its  soft  little  paws  and  patting  it 
affectionately  after  the  manner  of  kitten-kind. 

Suddenly  Nathalie  noticed  that  there  was  writing  on 
the  paper,  and,  stooping  down,  hurriedly  picked  it  up, 
when,  to  her  utter  astonishment,  the  first  words  which 
met  her  eyes  were  those  which  composed  the  name  that 
was  echoing  through  her  heart,  about  which  all  hope 
and  all  sensation  seemed  just  then  to  centre.  It  was 
the  full  name  of  Richard  Ledyard.  She  experienced  a 
dazed  sensation,  and  laid  her  hand  over  the  crumpled 
page  for  a  moment,  while  she  tried  to  think.  Should 
she  read  this  writing  which  had  thus  strangely  come  into 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  319 

her  hands  ?  Why  not  ?  Had  he  not  said  himself  that 
there  was  no  limit  to  her  right  in  him  ?  Yet  he  had  re- 
fused to  tell  her  what  she  asked.  Was  that  because  to 
do  so  would  involve  some  other  person  whom  he  might 
not  betray?  At  least  she  believed  so,  and  she  had 
arrived  at  a  point  of  conviction  that  to-night  was  to  be 
the  crisis  of  his  fate  and  hers.  Should  she  let  a  mere 
scruple,  however  honorable  to  herself,  stand  in  the  way 
of  obtaining  the  information  possessing  which  she  might 
possibly  save  him  from  death  or  disgrace  ? 

Her  conscience,  or  her  will,  thus  questioned,  answered 
definitely,  no !  She  flew  to  the  little  table  in  the  centre 
of  the  room,  and  there,  spreading  out  the  crumpled  letter, 
read  its  contents  almost  to  the  end,  although  it  was  not 
even  addressed  to  Ledyard,  but  to  another  person,  with 
whose  affairs  she  had  even  less  right  to  meddle.  It  was, 
in  fact,  the  letter  which  Mrs.  Henderson  had  received 
from  her  mother  when  just  recovering  from  the  illness 
that  followed  her  accident, — the  letter  which  had  been 
given  her  to  read  by  her  husband  in  that  very  room, 
and  which  must,  when  she  was  suddenly  overcome  with 
faintness,  have  dropped  down  behind  the  sofa,  and  there 
remained  unheeded  all  these  weeks.  (Its  presence  did 
not  speak  well  for  old  Marjory's  care  in  sweeping  the 
room,  but  should  probably  be  charged  to  the  account 
of  her  failing  eyesight.)  "  Although  you  begged  me 
not  to  write  to  you,  dear  Posey,"  began  the  letter,  "  I 
cannot  but  send  a  line  to  express  to  you  the  anxiety 
and  distress  I  have  felt  at  hearing  of  the  terrible  acci- 
dent in  which  you  came  so  near  losing  your  life.  The 
account  of  it  was  copied  into  The  Dunstable  News,  our 
county  paper,  and  I  saw  to  my  dismay  that  '  Mrs.  Hen- 
derson was  found  senseless  on  the  road,  and  carried  to 
the  nearest  cottage  by  the  Rev.  Richard  Ledyard '/  My 
dear,  did  he  recognize  you  ?  And  if  so,  how  is  that 
marriage  to  be  any  longer  kept  a  secret?  Would  it  not 
be  better  to  tell  your  present  husband  of  it  frankly,  and 
so  avoid  the  shock  and  shame  of  its  being  found  out?" 

Nathalie   paused   with   a   strange    tightening   of  the 


32O  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

muscles  about  her  heart,  as  if  a  cold  hand  had  seized 
and  was  compressing  it.  "  That  marriage !"  What 
could  the  words  mean  ?  Surely  not  that  the  man  she 
loved  had  loved  and  been  married  to  this  other  woman  ? 
And,  yet,  what  else?  The  letter  spoke  next  of  the 
death  of  the  writer's  husband,  Mrs.  Henderson's  father, 
within  a  year.  Nathalie  read  on  desperately,  with  a 
burning  sense  of  injury  that  dulled  all  other  feelings  for 
the  time. 

"  I  have  not  told  you,  my  dear,  how  Richard  felt  when 
I  explained  to  him  the  unfortunate  circumstances  prior  to 
your  hasty  marriage,  or  how  indignant  he  was  both  with 
me  and  with  you  for  having  left  him  ignorant  of  them  so 
long.  Vainly  I  assured  him  that  I  had  been  ignorant 
of  them  myself  until  too  late  to  interfere.  He  was  quite 
implacable,  even  when  I  gave  him  your  deprecating 
note,  and  as  unreasonable  as  men  usually  are  when  they 
are  angry.  It  is  true  that,  being  the  only  explanation  of 
your  disappearance,  this  little  note  may  have  seemed 
rather  aggravating.  You  remember  that  while  you  were 
careful  to  withhold  from  him  the  name  of  your  former 
lover,  you  did  not  hesitate  to  tell  him  that  you  were  now 
united  to  the  only  man  whose  wife  you  should  ever  have 
been,  and  went  on  to  say  that  the  reason  you  had  gone 
away  as  you  did  and  would  not  give  any  clue  to  your 
new  name  and  surroundings,  was  through  fear  that  he 
might  try  to  follow  you.  Indeed,  your  conduct  was 
hard  enough  to  forgive  for  all  of  those  who  loved  you, — 
your  refusing  to  hold  any  communication  with  me, 
especially ;  and  you  certainly  deceived  Richard  cruelly, 
appealing  as  you  did  to  his  compassion,  and  trying  to 
awaken  his  old  affection ;  but  he  need  not  have  been  so 
furiously  excited  as  he  was.  He  assured  me  in  tones  of 
the  most  concentrated  scorn  that  he  never  wished  to  be 
hold  your  face  again.  He  declared  that  you  had  'duped,' 
'  betrayed'  him,  '  entrapped  his  honor,'  and  used  Heaven 
knows  what  other  exaggerated  expressions  of  displeasure. 
But  enough  of  this.  I  only  write  of  it  at  all  to  show  you 
what  temper  your  sudden  departure  left  him  in, 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  321 

that  although  his  anger  has  probably  long  passed,  the 
memory  of  it  may  make  him  hard  and  unyielding  now. 
Indeed,  dear,  in  view  of  the  strange  coincidence  of  Richard 
Ledyard'f  being  called  to  the  church  at  Dundafif  just 
as  you  and  Lieutenant  Henderson  have  returned  from 
abroad  and  are  to  live  there  permanently,  it  would  be 
much  wiser  to  speak  to  Mr.  Henderson  at  once,  hard  as 
it  would  be,  and  tell  him  all  the  truth ;  or,  if  you  cannot 
bring  yourself  to  do  this,  you  must  seek  an  interview 
with  Richard  as  soon  as  possible,  and  see  what  terms 
you  can  make  with  him.  How  I  wish  that  I  could  see 
you,  my  erring  yet  beloved  child  !" 

The  letter  was  after  this  but  the  expression  of  a 
mother's  unchanging  devotion,  and,  although  not  im- 
pressed with  the  general  tone  of  the  writer,  which  might 
certainly  have  been  more  lofty,  Nathalie,  excited  as  she 
was  and  shocked  as  she  felt  by  what  she  had  read,  did 
not  feel  that  she  had  the  faintest  excuse  to  pry  further 
into  its  confidence.  Indeed,  besides  the  pain  there  was 
at  her  heart,  she  laid  it  down  with  an  unwonted  sense 
of  shame  at  her  determined  perusal  of  what  had  been 
intended  for  no  other  eyes  than  those  of  the  unhappy 
woman  whose  secret  history  was  thus  laid  bare  before 
her. 

"  It  serves  me  right !  It  serves  me  right !"  she  mur- 
mured, burying  her  face  in  her  hands  and  giving  way 
to  a  passionate  burst  of  tears.  Then  came  the  reaction 
to  her  self-contempt,  in  which  she  asked  herself  how  it 
happened  that  she  of  all  others,  Nathalie  Arkwright, 
had  been  treated  like  this.  What  had  she  done? 
How  dared  any  one  behave  to  her  as  Ledyard  had? 
She  tried  to  hate  him,  and  hated  herself  that  she  but 
half  succeeded,  while  she  was  still  plunged  in  these 
bitter  feelings,  when  a  sound  of  wheels  and  the  tramp 
of  horses  aroused  her  to  listen,  with  a  sort  of  startled 
wonder  as  to  what  might  bring  a  carriage  on  that  lonely 
road  so  late  at  night.  Then  the  idea  occurred  to  her 
that  it  might  be  the  carriage  from  Fernwood,  and  with 
it  came  the  thought  of  Henderson's  dreaded  arrival  and 


322  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

the  interview  she  had  been  so  anxious  to  prevent,  a  half 
an  hour  before,  between  him  and  Ledyard.  Even  as  the 
fancy  flitted  through  her  mind  she  heard  the  carriage 
stop  for  one  moment  just  opposite  the  entrance,  and  then 
drive  on  faster  than  ever. 

Some  one  had  alighted  and  was  coming  through  the 
garden.  Nathalie  could  hear  the  footsteps,  and  the  bushes 
being  pushed  aside,  before  she  could  see  the  figure,  al- 
though she  was  now  again  at  the  window,  straining 
out  into  the  still,  bright  moonlight.  There  was  a  faint 
rustle  accompanying  the  steps,  which  told  of  a  woman's 
skirt,  and  the  next  instant  she  distinctly  saw  the  tall 
figure  of  her  sister  drawing  rapidly  near. 

"  Cynthia !" 

"  Yes,  Nathalie." 

"  What  brought  you  back  ?" 

"  Several  reasons.  One  was  that  I  could  not  feel  easy, 
dear,  about  you.  I  had  a  fear  that  you  might  want  me. 
There  was  a  look  in  your  eyes  when  I  left  you  to-night 
which  kept  returning  to  my  mind  and  troubled  me  all 
the  evening." 

Cynthia  was  in  the  room  by  this  time,  standing  in  front 
of  Nathalie,  who  still  sat  by  the  window,  and  turned  her 
face  instinctively  away  from  the  light  of  the  lamp  towards 
the  more  friendly  moonlight.  She  could  not  prevent 
her  tear-stained  cheeks,  however,  and  the  tremulous 
curves  of  her  mouth,  from  being  seen.  When  Cynthia 
with  her  strong  yet  tender  face  bent  over  her,  put  out 
her  arms,  and  gathered  the  girl  to  her  heart,  Nathalie 
gave  a  sigh  of  relief  at  the  sense  of  comforting  sympathy 
and  affection  that,  while  it  could  not  remove  her  distress, 
seemed  somehow  to  render  it  less  unbearable  than  during 
the  lonely  misery  of  the  first  realizing  consciousness  of 
loss.  But  she  could  not  tell  her  grief;  it  was  as  yet  too 
fresh  ;  and,  finding  her  unable  or  unwilling  to  reply  to  her 
anxious  questioning,  Cynthia  was  silent  for  a  while,  and 
then  began  to  talk  of  other  things,  explaining  how  on 
arriving  at  Fern  wood  that  evening  she  and  Mrs.  Pelham 
had  been  greatly  relieved  by  finding  a  telegram  from 


BROKEN  CHORDS. 


323 


Lieutenant  Henderson  to  say  that  he  would  return  in 
the  eleven-o'clock  train.  This  had  made  Cynthia  feel 
it  unnecessary  to  remain  there  all  night.  She  had  ac- 
cordingly taken  advantage  of  the  carriage,  which  was 
ordered  to  the  station  to  meet  the  master  of  the  house, 
to  come  back  to  Nathalie;  but  she  had  no  sooner  men- 
tioned this  fact  than  Nathalie  started  up  distractedly, 
recalled  to  a  sense  of  the  immediate  danger  to  her  lover, 
the  thought  of  whom,  even  though  unworthy,  so  pos- 
sessed her  that  for  the  moment  she  could  think  of  noth- 
ing else. 

"  Was  that  the  carriage  ?  Has  it  gone  after  him  ? 
Has  he  come  already?  There  will  be  a  duel,  Cynthia! 
There  will  be  a  duel !"  she  exclaimed,  wildly.  "  Mr. 
Henderson  telegraphed  to  Mr.  Ledyard — oh,  such  a 
shocking  message,  and  he  has  gone  to  meet  him  !  What 
shall  we  do  ?  What  can  we  do  ?" 

"  We  must  prevent  it,"  replied  Cynthia,  instantly  re- 
alizing the  gravity  of  the  situation.  "  Where  was  the 
meeting  to  be  ?" 

"  He  told  him  to  meet  him  at  the  station." 

"  So  much  the  better.  Nothing  very  bad  could  happen 
there  I  think.  We  must  go  at  once,  though." 

"  Where  ?" 

"  To  the  station." 

"  Can  we  go  there  ?" 

"  Not  alone,  of  course.  I  shall  stop  for  Dr.  Danforth 
and  get  him  to  go  with  us.  Come,  Nathalie,  it  is  ten 
minutes  of  eleven.  There  is  not  a  moment  to  be  lost. 
But  perhaps,  dear,  you  had  better  not  go  ?  You  looked 
tired  when  I  came." 

"  Tired !"  exclaimed  Nathalie.  "  Do  you  think  I  would 
let  you  go  without  me  ?  I  was  only  borne  down  with 
a  sense  of  powerlessness  and  misery  ;  but  it  seems  to  me, 
Cynthia,  that  you  are  never  powerless.  It  is  wonderful 
how  you  always  think  of  something  to  do." 

The  two  sisters  were  already  half-way  down  the  garden 
as  Nathalie  spoke,  for  both  were  fully  conscious  of  the 
pressure  of  time.  It  so  chanced  that  the  moon,  although 


324  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

still  high  in  the  heavens,  had  gone  behind  a  cloud,  so 
that  the  tall  shrubs  and  lilac-bushes  seemed  to  stand  up 
black  and  threatening  as  they  passed.  They  were  soon 
out  on  the  high-road,  had  crossed  it,  and  Nathalie,  with 
Cynthia's  aid,  was  passing  rapidly  down  the  steep  steps 
which  led  from  the  top  of  the  hill  to  the  village. 

She  clung  closely  to  her  sister  as  they  came  out  on 
the  narrow,  dark  street,  with  its  irregular  line  of  lanterns, 
and  here  and  there  a  belated  light  showing  faintly  from 
an  obscure  shop-window ;  but  Cynthia  was  not  long  in 
guiding  her  to  the  door  of  Dr.  Danforth's  house,  where 
they  paused  to  knock,  but,  as  they  did  so,  perceived  that 
there  was  a  bright  light  in  his  consulting-room,  where 
the  curtains  were  not  drawn  as  usual,  while  some  one, 
whom  they  supposed  at  first  to  be  Danforth  himself,  was 
walking  rapidly  to  and  fro,  but  on  approaching  the  win- 
dow they  perceived  the  figure  to  be  the  very  opposite 
to  Dr.  Danforth  in  eveiy  way.  In  fact,  as  soon  as  they 
could  distinguish  the  outline  against  the  glow  of  the 
lamp  and  the  fire  beyond,  they  both  recognized  Mr. 
Granby  Neil,  who  appeared  to  be  undergoing  some  vio- 
lent mental  agitation,  as  from  time  to  time  he  shook  his 
fist  or  struck  his  hands  together  as  he  walked.  He  did 
not  seem  to  have  heard  their  summons  to  the  door,  so 
Cynthia  repeated  her  knock  more  loudly,  remembering 
Mr.  Neil's  deafness,  and  fearing  that  Danforth  was  out 
and  his  servant  gone  to  bed. 

This  indeed  proved  to  be  the  case  ;  but  a  moment  or 
two  later  the  door  was  opened  by  Granby  Neil  himself, 
from  whom  they  learned  that  Dr.  Danforth  had  been 
sent  for,  a  few  minutes  before  they  came,  to  see  the  child 
of  the  station-master,  which  was  again  threatened  with 
croup. 

"  Is  there  anything  the  matter  ?"  asked  Mr.  Neil, 
kindly,  if  a  trifle  absently.  "  Perhaps  there  may  be  some- 
thing I  can  do  ?" 

Whereon  it  occurred  to  Cynthia  that,  as  in  some  mys- 
terious way  which  she  did  not  attempt  to  understand, 
Mr.  Neil  was  mixed  up  in  the  cause  of  the  trouble 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  325 

between  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Henderson,  he  might  be  the  best 
person  they  could  appeal  to  in  the  present  emergency. 
At  any  rate,  they  had  no  choice,  and  she  knew  the  man 
of  old,  that  he  had  a  good  heart. 

She  was  not  prepared,  however,  for  the  rapidity  with 
which  he  took  in  the  position  of  affairs,  or  his  evident 
indignation  as  soon  as  she  had  barely  indicated  it  in  her 
hasty  explanation. 

"  Go  ?"  he  exclaimed.  "  Of  course  I  will  go  !  But 
do  I  understand  you  to  say  that  Henderson  sought  this 
meeting?  Surely  it  was  Ledyard!  And  yet  when  he 
had  borne  with  him  so  long,  it  was  rather  late  in  the  day 
to  seek  vengeance, — for  him,  at  least.  I  beg  your  pardon, 
Mrs.  Henderson,  I  am  talking  wildly;  but  do  you  not 
think  it  would  be  as  well  that  you  and  your  sister  should 
remain  here?  Matters  such  as  this  are  not  for  women, 
but  for  men  to  settle  among  themselves.  If  things  are 
as  I  fear  they  may  be,  it  would  be  much  wiser  for  you 
to  come  in  and  sit  down.  Let  me  urge  your  doing  so. 
I  will  promise  to  return,  or  send  Danforth  to  tell  you  all 
that  has  happened. 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Neil,  you  are  very  kind,"  said  Cyn- 
thia, blushing  up  to  the  roots  of  her  hair,  "  but  you 
know  you  made  a  mistake  last  evening  when  you  took 
me  for  Mrs.  Henderson,  because  she  was  ill  and  unable 
to  appear,  and  Nathalie  and  I  would  much  rather  go 
with  you  to  the  station,  as  we  think  it  just  possible  that 
we  may  do  some  good  there,  and  we  are  sure  we  cannot 
do  any  good  here." 

"  Of  course.  I  beg  a  thousand  pardons,  Miss  Ark- 
wright.  I  knew  from  what  Mr.  Ledyard  explained  to 
me  this  afternoon  that  I  must  have  been  laboring  under 
some  strange  illusion  last  evening  only  pardonable  in  a 
man  who  has  been  dead  and  is  alive  again.  I  was  so 
sure  you  would  marry  him  that  I  find  it  hard  to  realize 
the  truth.  Old  impressions  are  much  stronger  than  new 
ones,  and  seeing  you  to-night  this  one  recurred  to  me. 
Indeed,  I  hardly  know  what  to  believe,  after  all  the  dis- 
illusioning I  have  had  to-day,  and  am  so  shocked  besides 


326  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

by  the  news  you  tell  me  that  I  cannot  think  what  I  am 
about.  That  which  is  to  be  done  must  be  done  now,  of 
course,  so  if  you  insist  upon  going  we  will  set  out  im- 
mediately." 

Suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  Mr.  Neil  seized  his  hat 
and  started  at  a  rapid  pace  for  the  railway-station,  ac- 
companied by  the  two  sisters.  There  was  little  said  as 
they  went  along;  all  three  had  too  much  to  think  of. 
Cynthia  was  mystified  by  Mr.  Neil's  behavior.  The 
violent  excitement  which  he  displayed  the  moment  she 
spoke  of  Henderson,  and  his  first  unguarded  exclama- 
tions, were  quite  inexplicable  to  her,  although  to  poor 
Nathalie  they  seemed  intelligible  enough  in  the  light 
of  what  she  had  read,  and  only  served  as  confirmation 
of  her  worst  fears. 

The  whistle  of  the  still  distant  locomotive  struck  upon 
their  ears  when  but  a  few  yards  from  Danforth's  door, 
and  then  the  whiz  of  the  rapidly-approaching  train. 
Indeed,  although  they  redoubled  their  speed,  it  had 
reached  the  railway-bridge  before  they  were  within  sight 
of  the  steps  that  led  up  to  the  station.  They  saw  the 
train,  however,  quite  plainly  on  top  of  the  great  stone 
arch  that  spanned  the  street,  with  all  its  lights  gleaming 
against  the  moonlit  sky,  belching  out  clouds  of  impa- 
tient, half-luminous  smoke,  for  this  was  the  great  West- 
ern express,  fresh  from  the  junction  where  it  had  met 
its  rival  for  Washington,  and  thought  itself  very  good- 
natured  to  trifle  away  an  instant  on  so  unimportant  a 
matter  as  the  town  of  Dundaff.  Indeed,  before  they 
had  time  to  realize  tLat  it  was  there  it  was  off  again,  and 
the  sound  of  its  many  wheels  became  mingled  with  the 
fierce  panting  of  its  engine,  that  grew  louder  or  fainter 
as  it  turned  the  sudden  railway-curves  caused  by  the 
bending  and  winding  of  the  river,  until  it  reverberated 
away  among  the  hills. 

Granby  Neil  pushed  ahead,  and  was  also  lost  to  view 
by  the  time  Cynthia  and  Nathalie  were  at  the  bottom  of 
the  station  stairs.  Having  mounted  these  as  fast  as  they 
could,  they  came  upon  him  in  front  of  the  door  of  the 


BROKEN  CHORDS,  327 

waiting-room,  questioning  Dr.  Danforth,  who  looked 
very  much  perplexed,  evidently  not  understanding  the 
cause  of  Mr.  Neil's  excitement. 

"Yes,  I  have  just  seen  Henderson,"  they  heard  him 
say,  speaking  louder  than  usual  on  account  of  his  friend's 
deafness.  "  He  got  out  of  the  New  York  train,  and  I 
was  talking  to  him,  when  Ledyard  came  up.  I  do  not 
know  what  the  trouble  is,  but  they  looked  anything  but 
amiably  at  one  another.  I  never  heard  Ledyard  speak- 
so  haughtily  before,  and  Henderson  was  barely  civil. 
They  walked  off  together,  though,  as  by  mutual  consent, 
to  have  it  out,  perhaps." 
"  Which  way  did  they  go  ?" 

"  Why,  up  the  railroad.  I  think  I  saw  them  turn  to 
cross  the  cow-path  bridge  that  leads  over  to  the  meadows. 
What  the  mischief  is  the  matter  with  you,  Granby  ? 
You  look  as  if  you  were  out  of  your  mind !" 

Then  followed  some  hurried  explanation  from  Mr. 
Neil,  at  the  end  of  which  Cynthia  and  Nathalie  drew 
near  and  joined  the  group. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  so,"  Danforth  was  saying  in 
more  subdued  tones.  "  I  had  no  idea  of  anything  as 
bad  as  that.  They  must  be  followed  at  once." 

"  Of  course  they  must.      Will  you  come  with  me  ?" 
"  I  will,  indeed." 

"  Oh,  Cynthia,  do  you  think  we  can  go  ?"  cried  Nath- 
alie, who  was  clinging  to  her  sister's  arm  in  great  agi- 
tation. 

"  We  will,  of  course,"  returned  Cynthia,  decisively. 
Neil,  who  had  already  started,  turned  back  on  hearing 
this.     "  Let  me  beg  of  you,  ladies,  to  remain  in  the  sta- 
tion here  while  Danforth  and  I  go  together  to  see  what 
we  can  do,"  he  urged. 

But  Danforth  replied,  "  Why  not  let  them  come,  Neil? 
If  Miss  Nathalie  Arkwright  has  half  the  nerve  and 
presence  of  mind  of  her  sister,  they  may  be  of  service." 
Without  more  words  they  all  hurried  forward  over 
the  irregular  footing  afforded  by  the  wooden  supports 
of  the  railroad  to  where  it  was  crossed  by  some  planks 


328  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

fitted  down  between  the  rails,  over  which  it  was  cus- 
tomary to  drive  the  village  cows,  who  were  obliged  to 
face  this  danger  and  then  to  traverse  a  narrow  rustic 
bridge  in  going  to  and  from  the  meadows  on  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  river,  where  they  were  pastured.  Neil, 
who  had  kept  always  ahead,  was  now  half  running,  and 
soon  led  the  way  across  the  bridge,  which  could  be  plainly 
seen,  as  well  as  the  fields  beyond,  since  the  moon  had 
once  more  come  out  and  was  shining  with  twice  her 
former  radiance.  Indeed,  she  was  what  is  called  the 
harvest-moon,  it  being  already  the  beginning  of  Septem- 
ber, and  almost  capable  of  turning  night  to  day. 

A  row  of  pollard  willow-trees  fringed  the  low  bank 
on  the  farther  border  of  the  river,  to  which  the  fertile 
meadows  sloped  gradually  down,  while  on  the  other  side 
they  stretched  imperceptibly  upward  towards  the  range 
of  wooded  hills  beyond  them.  The  more  or  less  troubled 
thoughts  in  the  minds  of  all  the  pedestrians  were  in 
striking  contrast  to  the  tranquil  scene  which  was  thus 
peacefully  illumined.  There  was  not  even  a  road  to 
break  the  soft,  uninterrupted  green  carpet  that  the  fields 
spread  before  them  until  at  the  very  brink  of  the  river  a 
narrow  foot-path  ran  along  the  water's  edge  beneath  the 
shade  of  the  willows. 

As  those  they  sought  were  nowhere  visible  on  the 
moonlit  plain,  it  was  naturally  along  this  shaded  path 
that  the  eyes  of  the  whole  party  were  anxiously  bent 
after  they  had  crossed  the  bridge ;  but  although  they 
believed  them  to  be  somewhere  among  its  shadows, 
they  might  have  gone  in  either  direction,  and  the  ques- 
tion was  whether,  in  following,  to  turn  up  or  down  the 
river. 

A  moment  or  two  of  anxious  consultation  was  about 
to  result  in  a  separation,  when  all  doubt  was  suddenly 
and  terribly  ended  by  two  sharp  reports  of  a  pistol,  which 
rang  out  unmistakably  on  the  right  of  the  bridge  and 
from  a  point  much  farther  up  the  river.  Nathalie  uttered 
a  faint  cry,  and  would  have  fallen,  but  that  her  sister 
caught  and  held  her  firmly,  whispering  something  in  her 


BROKEN  CHORDS 


car  at  the  same  moment  which  caused  the  girl  to  rally 
her  forces  with  a  supreme  effort,  and  join  Cynthia  in 
following  Neil  and  Danforth,  who  had  both  set  forth  at 
the  top  of  their  speed  to  run  in  the  direction  from  which 
the  shots  had  been  fired. 


CHAPTER    XLIII. 

A  DARK  figure  lying  on  the  ground  with  face  upturned 
in  the  moonlight,  some  one  bending  over  it  with  grave 
concern.  Another  figure  leaning  against  a  tree  near  by, 
with  arms  crossed  on  breast,  a  lowering  brow,  and  de- 
fiant mien,  while  a  fourth  man,  standing  in  front  of  him, 
was  gesticulating  wildly,  pointing  now  at  the  prostrate 
form  amidst  the  long  grass  of  the  river-bank,  and  now 
to  himself,  as  though  to  emphasize  what  he  was  saying. 
This  was  what  the  two  sisters  saw  as  they  rounded  a 
sudden  bend  in  the  river  and  came  out  on  a  space  where 
the  path  which  bordered  it  was  comparatively  free  from 
trees. 

It  required  but  a  glance  to  tell  them  that  the  man 
stretched  upon  the  grass  was  Richard  Ledyard,  and  that 
it  was  Danforth  who  bent  over  him.  The  one  who 
leaned  against  the  tr  ,-e-trunk  was  plainly  Henderson,  as  he 
was  much  taller  than  the  rest,  while  the  gesticulating 
figure  was  that  of  Granby  Neil.  Indeed,  as  they  drew 
nearer  they  could  hear  quite  plainly  what  was  said,  but 
one,  at  least,  of  them  was  too  much  wrought  upon  by 
the  terror  of  what  was  seen  to  pay  much  heed  to  the 
wild  words  which  were  pouring  from  the  artist  in  a  tor- 
rent of  reproachful  indignation. 

There  was  no  more  shrinking,  no  thought  of  fainting, 
now,  on  the  part  of  Nathalie  Arkwright.  In  an  instant 
she  was  kneeling  beside  Dr.  Danforth.  She  had  taken 
Ledyard's  cold  hand  in  hers,  and  was  warming  it  against 
her  breast,  while  she  raised  her  eyes  imploringly  to  Dan- 

28* 


33O  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

forth's  face,  silently  asking  the  question  she  could  not 
utter. 

"  He  is  badly  wounded,  but  I  think  not  fatally,"  the 
doctor  said,  and  the  tears  rushing  from  the  girl's  eyes 
bathed  the  hand  she  held.  They  were  tears  of  relief, 
for  she  had  not  dared  to  admit  the  fear  that  knocked  at 
her  heart. 

Cynthia,  meanwhile,  stood  by  in  consternation  for  a 
moment  at  Nathalie's  strange  conduct ;  then  her  dulled 
ears  began  suddenly  to  quicken  and  collect  the  sense  of 
what  Granby  Neil  was  saying.  He  was  calling  some 
one  a  villain,  a  coward,  a  traitor!  Whom  could  it  be? 
Surely  not  the  senseless  m,m  upon  the  ground,  from 
whose  arm  or  shoulder  that  dark  stream  of  blood  was 
dripping,  which  Nathalie  was  stanching  with  her  hand- 
kerchief, while  Danforth  tore  his  own  in  strips,  making 
a  hasty  bandage  with  which  to  bind  up  the  wound  ? 
No,  it  seemed  that  it  was  not  Richard  Ledyard.  Al- 
though without  the  faintest  ray  of  reason  to  explain  it, 
by  aught  in  Cynthia's  knowledge,  it  seemed  that  Mr. 
Neil  had  turned  upon  the  man  who  was  his  friend  from 
boyhood,  of  whose  hospitality  he  had  partaken  but  the 
day  before,  who  had  been  so  overjoyed  at  his  return, 
because  he  had  mourned  him  as  one  of  the  dearest  of 
his  dead ! 

No  wonder  that  Millard  wore  that  look  of  bitter  scorn  ; 
no  wonder  that  he  stood  there  as  a  i'tone  while  the  blood 
of  his  victim  flowed,  with  a  dreadful  attempt  to  seem 
indifferent  to  the  mischief  his  passion  had  wrought !  At 
least  so  thought  Cynthia,  who  knew  his  haughty  na- 
ture. In  another  moment  there  would  be  a  second 
deadly  quarrel  if  things  went  on.  Without  hesitation 
she  stepped  to  Millard's  side. 

"  I  am  afraid  that  you  do  not  know  what  you  are 
saying,  Mr.  Neil,"  she  said,  in  a  calm,  clear  voice,  which 
was  nevertheless  decided  enough  to  cause  Granby  Neil 
to  hesitate  a  moment  in  the  midst  of  his  vituperations, 
glowering  at  her,  as  he  did  so,  with  little  amity.  "  Mr. 
Henderson  has  been  very  sorely  tried,"  continued  Cyn- 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  331 

thia,  steadily;  "and  if,  as  may  chance,  he  made  the 
mistake — misled  by  appearances — of  taking  a  true  man 
for  a  false  one, — if  he  have  not  withheld  his  hand  from 
that  vengeance  which  belongs  not  to  man,  but  to  God, 
there  is  at  least  no  reason  why  yon  should  accuse  him 
as  you  are  doing,  or  venture  to  traduce  his  good  name, 
even  before  his  face!" 

"  And  what  if  it  be  /who  have  made  the  mistake  you 
so  aptly  describe,  Miss  Arkwright?  Supposing  it  be  I 
who,  reversing  your  proposition,  have  taken  a  false  man 
for  a  true?  Since  you  insist  upon  interfering  in  this 
matter,  which,  as  I  assured  you,  is  one  of  a  character 
only  to  be  discussed  by  men,  you  must  go  out  of  your- 
self in  order  to  judge  of  it  as  a  man.  Let  me  ask  you 
how  you  would  feel  if  you  were  a  man  somewhat  in  the 
decline  of  life,  and  you  should  suddenly  discover  that 
your  bosom  friend  in  all  the  years  that  you  had  lived 
had  made  a  dupe  of  you ;  that  he  had  betrayed  the 
honor  of  the  woman  you  loved,  not  once,  but  twice, — both 
before  her  marriage  and  after, — and  that  he  had  ended  his 
list  of  evil  doings  by  murdering  one  of  the  best  men  that 
ever  lived !" 

"  It  is  not  necessary  to  consider  how  I  should  feel  in 
such  a  case  as  that,"  said  Cynthia,  "  because  there  is  no 
such  case  in  point.  The  man  who  has  been  your  friend 
in  all  these  years,  if  that  man  be  Lieutenant  Henderson, 
has  played  no  traitor's  part.  Whatever  sin  he  may  have 
committed  he  has  striven  nobly  to  atone  for;  he  has 
never  stooped  to  deception,  and  has  been  most  loyal  to 
you,  so  that  you  are  evidently  laboring  under  some  mis- 
conception. I  am  sure  Mr.  Henderson  knows  as  little 
as  I  do  what  you  mean  when  you  talk  of  the  woman  you 
love,  or  accuse  him  of  murder  /" 

On  hearing  this,  and  for  all  answer,  Granby  Neil 
turned  and  pointed  to  the  senseless  form  of  Richard 
Ledvard.  Then  Henderson  spoke  for  the  first  time. 

"  If  you  mean  to  accuse  me  of  wounding  the  man  who 
lies  yonder,  Neil,"  he  said,  coldly,  "  you  do  not  need  to 
point  at  him.  It  is  a  matter  beyond  all  question  that  I 


332  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

sent  him  a  threatening  message,  that  I  met  and  accused 
him  of  that  which  could  not  be  pardoned  by  me,  and 
that  on  his  declining  either  to  deny  the  facts,  to  explain 
them,  or  to  fight  with  me,  I  refused  to  read  the  commu- 
nication which  he  ventured  to  bring  me  from  my  poor 
misguided  wife,  and  offered  him  a  weapon,  telling  him 
that  if  he  would  not  take  it  and  defend  himself  he  must 
take  the  consequences.  What  all  this  trash  is  that  you 
are  talking  about  the  woman  you  love  I  do  not  know.  I 
was  not  aware  that  you  had  ever  loved  any  woman." 

"  For  what  reason,  then,  did  you  think  I  had  mar- 
ried ?" 

"  I  never  dreamed  that  you  had  married." 

"  You  did  not  know  of  my  marriage  ?" 

"  Certainly  not.  How  should  I  know  it,  if  you,  who 
professed  the  long  friendship  to  which  you  have  just 
been  referring,  did  not  find  it  possible  or  desirable  to  tell 
me  ?  When  were  you  married  ?  Where  ?  To  whom  ? 
Was  your  wife  the  daughter  of  an  Indian  chief  or  a 
Western  settler  ?  Why  did  you  not  bring  her  back  with 
you  ?  or  did  you  do  so  ?  You  forget  that  I  am  as  igno- 
rant of  this  as  of  all  the  other  events  of  the  last  ten  years 
of  your  life." 

"  And  you  know  well,  you  cunning  rascal,  that  my 
marriage  was  not  an  event  of  the  last  ten  years  of  my 
life !  You  are  perfectly  aware,  however  you  may  pre- 
tend otherwise,  that  I  was  married  before  I  went  away 
to  the  poor  girl  whom  you  had  previously  ruined  with- 
out my  knowledge !  You  know  that  it  was  a  great  con- 
venience to  you  to  have  her  taken  off  your  hands  just 
at  that  time,  as  you  were  engaged  to  be  married  to  an- 
other lady, — excuse  me,  Miss  Arkwright,  I  am  obliged 
to  speak  plainly, — but  that  subsequently,  having  been 
rejected  by  that  lady,  as  I  learned  only  this  afternoon, 
you  renewed  your  relations  with  this  girl,  regardless  of 
the  fact  that  she  had  become  the  wife  of  a  man  who  was 
absent,  and  whom  you  continue  to  call  your  friend  !" 

"  Do  not  apologize,  if  you  please,  for  speaking  plainly. 
out  speak  a  little  more  plainly,  Mr.  Neil,"  said  Cynthia, 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  333 

with  spirit.  "  Am  I  right  in  conjecturing  that  the  lady 
whom  you  married  was  poor  Miss  Periwinkle?" 

Henderson  drew  a  long  breath  between  set  teeth  as 
Neil  answered,  "  That  was  her  name." 

"  My  God !"  cried  Millard,  and  trembled  so  beneath 
the  shock  of  the  disclosure  that  he  put  his  arm  against 
the  tree-trunk  for  support.  "Then  you  actually  be- 
lieved," he  asked  of  Neil  presently,  in  a  shaken  tone, 
"  that  when  I  sought  her  again  it  was  not  with  the 
intention  of  marrying  her, — you  thought  I  knciv  of 
this?" 

It  was  Neil's  turn  to  be  astonished. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  she  never  told  you,"  he  asked, 
incredulously, — "  not  in  all  these  years  ?" 

"  That  is  what  I  mean." 

"  Do  you  wish  me  to  believe  that  you  believed  her  to 
be  your  wife?" 

"  That  is  as  you  please,"  with  a  faint  return  of  his 
haughty  manner.  "  There  is  one  thing  quite  certain," 
continued  Henderson.  "  I  was  not  married  to  Miss 
Periwinkle  until  after  the  report  of  your  death  had 
reached  us  both.  It  was,  of  course,  believed  by  both ; 
and  if  it  had  been  a  true  instead  of  a  false  report,  she 
would  have  been  in  fact  what  she  was  and  is  in  verity, 
my  sadly-erring  wife." 

Just  at  this  moment  Danforth  came  up.  "  What  in 
the  world  do  you  mean,  Granby  Neil,"  he  asked,  sharply, 
"  by  standing  there  talking  when  there  is  a  wounded  man 
to  care  for,  whose  life  depends  upon  his  being  got  to 
some  place  of  shelter  quickly,  and  another  man  whose 
safety  depends  upon  his  being  sent  away  from  Dundaff 
as  rapidly  and  quietly  as  it  can  be  done  ? 

"  True  enough,"  said  Cynthia,  anxiously ;  "  although," 
she  added,  with  a  meaning  glance  from  Neil  to  Hender- 
son, "  I  think  the  last  few  moments  have  not  been  wasted. 
Dr.  Danforth." 

Danforth  bowed  his  head  in  acquiescence,  his  eyes 
following  hers  in  the  direction  of  Henderson,  who  looked 
like  a  man  awakening  from  a  dream.  It  was  no  moment 


334  „    BROKEN  CHORDS. 

for  unnecessary  words,  or  he  would  have  said  that  he 
never  suspected  Miss  Arkwright  of  wasting  time. 

The  attention  of  the  whole  party  was  now  turned  to 
Ledyard.  Before  the  wound  was  bound  up  he  had 
fainted  from  loss  of  blood,  and  his  condition  seemed 
critical  enough  to  warrant  all  the  anxiety  which  Dan- 
forth  showed,  if  not  quite  all  that  Nathalie  felt.  Indeed, 
the  white  immobility  of  his  face  was  such  a  painful  con- 
trast to  the  vivid  changes  seen  sweeping  over  the  same 
face  that  afternoon  that  none  of  them  could-  gaze  at  it 
without  emotion,  and  least  of  all  the  man  whose  rash  act 
had  led  to  this  result.  He  was  just  realizing  the  truth 
that  he  had  done  he  knew  not  what.  Millard  Hender- 
son, who  was  now  standing  with  the  others,  had  put  his 
hand  on  Danforth's  shoulder,  and,  turning  towards  him, 
the  doctor  saw  for  the  first  time  that  he,  too,  was  pale  as 
death. 

"  Why.  Millard,  what  has  happened  to  you  ?"  he  asked, 
in  astonishment. 

"  Nothing." 

"  But  there  is  something  the  matter.  You  are  bleed- 
ing. How  came  you  to  be  wounded  ?  I  thought  you 
said  Ledyard  refused  to  fire  ?" 

"  So  he  did.  I  am  not  a  butcher,  though  ;  and  when 
I  gave  him  a  dose  of  lead,  I  of  course  intended  to  take 
one  too." 

"You  mean  to  say  that  you  shot  yourself?  Then 
you  are  more  of  a  fool  than  I  thought." 

"  I  wish  I  were  only  a  fool,"  replied  Henderson.  "  I 
would  give  all  I  have  to  know  why  that  man  has  been 
torturing  me  so  unnecessarily,  if  he  really  is  not  what 
I  took  him  to  be." 

"  Did  you  not  say  that  he  offered  you  a  letter  to  read 
from  Posey  ?"  asked  Cynthia,  gently.  "  You  were  very 
wrong  to  refuse  it,  for  his  sake,  her  sake,  and  your 
own." 

"  I  know  it." 

"  Where  is  the  letter  ?"  she  continued. 

"  In  his  pocket,  I  suppose,  poor  devil." 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  335 

>;  Will  you  not  let  Dr.  Danforth  attend  to  your  wound  ?" 

"  Not  now ;  we  must  see  what  can  be  done  for  Led- 
yard.  Is  there  no  way  of  reviving  him?  What  have 
you  tried  ?"  he  asked  of  Danforth. 

The  doctor  mentioned  two  restoratives  which  he  hap- 
pened to  have  in  his  medical  bag. 

"  I  have  some  brandy  here,"  said  Mil  lard,  drawing  a 
flask  from  his  pocket,  which  Danforth  immediately  took 
advantage  of;  while  a  few  drops  between  Ledyard's  set 
lips  had  the  result  of  bringing  a  faint  color  to  his  cheeks, 
and  more  of  the  spirit  gently  applied  to  forehead  and 
temples  had  a  still  more  reviving  effect. 

Richard  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  at  Dr.  Danforth 
with  some  surprise,  then  he  turned  his  gaze  to  where 
Cynthia  and  Nathalie  were  standing,  side  by  side;  pass- 
ing over  Miss  Arkwright,  still  with  a  look  of  wonder, 
until  his  eyes  fell  on  her  sister,  where  they  rested,  with  a 
subtle  change  of  light  which  told  its  tale  so  plainly  that 
none  could  doubt  their  meaning. 

"  Nathalie,"  he  murmured. 

She  stooped  down  instantly,  and  took  the  hand  again 
between  her  own  that  she  had  before  been  chafing.  By 
some  mysterious  process,  in  no  way  allied  to  reason, 
every  shadow  of  the  doubt  of  him — that  grew  to  cer- 
tainty an  hour  before — was  fading  from  her  mind. 

"  How  came  you  here  ?"  asked  Ledyard,  with  a  faint, 
sweet  smile;  but  before  the  girl  could  answer  Danforth 
interposed. 

"  It  is  of  no  real  consequence,  Mr.  Ledyard,  how  any 
of'  us  came  here.  The  great  point  is  that  we  did  come, 
and  we  are  all  now  bent  on  getting  you  at  once  to  some 
shelter  where  you  can  be  made  more  comfortable,"  he 
said,  cheerily.  "  You  are  doing  very  well  indeed,"  he 
continued,  feeling  the  pulse  of  the  hand  opposite  to  that 
which  Nathalie  was  still  holding,  very  much  to  Cynthia's 
surprise.  "  A  little  more  of  that  brandy,  please,  Hen- 
derson," continued  the  doctor;  "there,  that  will  do. 
Now  take  some  yourself;  you  nee^  it  badly  enough.  I 
must  stop  that  blood." 


336  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

The  last  words  were  said  in  an  undertone,  not  being 
intended  for  Ledyard's  ears;  but  he  evidently  caught 
them,  for  he  looked  up  quickly. 

"  Is  Lieutenant  Henderson  wounded  ?"  he  asked. 
"  How  is  that  ?" 

"  It  is  nothing  to  speak  of,"  replied  Millard,  hastily , 
and  then,  bending  over  Ledyard,  he  said,  "  I  have  heard 
that  in  the  last  ten  minutes,  Mr.  Ledyard,  which  leads 
me  to  think  that  I  may  have  been  grossly  mistaken 
in  accusing  you,  or  rather  in  the  implied  accusation 
which  I  made.  I  do  not  yet  fully  understand  the  part 
you  have  played, — or  I  have  played  myself,  for  that 
matter, — but  I  am  ready  to  ask  your  pardon  if  you 
simply  say  that  you  are  innocent,  as  you  may  remember 
that  you  refused  to  do." 

"  I  consider  it  unnecessary,"  returned  Ledyard,  over 
whose  face  a  great  change  of  expression  had  come  while 
Henderson  was  speaking.  It  now  wore  the  same  look 
of  pride  and  obstinacy  which  had  so  dismayed  Nathalie 
when  her  lover  first  saw  the  telegram  she  wished  to  keep 
from  him.  "  Will  you  be  kind  enough,"  he  continued, 
turning  to  Dr.  Danforth, "  to  put  your  hand  in  my  breast- 
pocket and  take  out  a  letter  for  Lieutenant  Henderson 
from  his  wife  ?" 

Danforth  did  as  he  was  bidden,  and  drawing  out  the 
letter  which  had  cost  poor  Posey  so  much  anxious  misery, 
handed  it  to  Henderson,  who  took  it  in  silence. 

"  I  positively  forbid  you  to  attempt  to  read  that  letter, 
Lieutenant  Henderson,"  said  the  doctor,  "  until  I  have 
attended  to  your  wound."  Henderson  looked  at  him  in 
surprise.  One  would  not  have  expected  so  much  de- 
cision from  the  man's  usually  careless  manner.  "  Take  off 
your  coat,"  continued  Danforth,  laying  hold  of  the  gar 
ment  in  question  at  the  same  moment ;  and  realizing  that 
there  was  not  light  enough  to  see  to  read  the  letter,  and 
feeling  that  he  was  momentarily  losing  strength,  Millard 
submitted  to  such  hasty  surgical  treatment  as  the  time 
and  place  admitted  of  his  receiving. 

Meanwhile,  Granby  Neil,  who  now  that  the  violence 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  337 

of  his  excitement  was  past  proved  an  able  assistant  to 
Danforth,  was  hastily  constructing  a  stretcher,  like  those 
he  had  seen  used  among  the  Indians,  by  cutting  two 
long  poles  from  the  nearest  willow-tree,  which  he  con- 
nected together  at  either  end  by  intertwining  the  smaller 
branches  so  as  to  hold  them  parallel  about  a  foot  and  a 
half  apart.  He  and  Dr.  Danforth  then  raised  Ledyard 
gently  between  them,  placing  him  on  a  long  cloak,  which 
Cynthia  had  had  about  her  on  the  drive  from  Fernwood 
and  in  her  haste  forgot  to  throw  aside  at  the  house,  al- 
though the  night  was  so  warm  that  when  she  set  out  to 
walk  up  the  railroad  she  took  it  off  and  carried  it  on  her 
arm.  This  they  used  to  sling  across  the  two  willow 
poles,  which,  with  Henderson's  aid.  were  lifted  with  diffi- 
culty until  they  rested  on  the  shoulders  of  Granby  Neil 
and  Dr.  Danforth,  who  were  thus  enabled  to  carry  their 
helpless  burden  slung  between  them  in  a  kind  of  ham- 
mock formed  by  the  cloak,  the  two  sides  of  which  were 
held  firmly  in  place  by  Nathalie  and  Cynthia  walking  on 
the  right  and  on  the  left,  while  Henderson  brought  up 
the  rear,  insisting  on  helping  Danforth  from  time  to  time 
in  spite  of  the  doctor's  remonstrances,  who  plainly  saw, 
as  did  all  the  others  by  this  time,  that  Henderson  was 
suffering  severe  pain. 

He  had  entirely  refused  either  to  be  helped  or  to  be 
left  behind,  or  to  take  the  first  train  to  Baltimore,  as 
Danforth  wished  him  to  do  until  time  should  have  de- 
cided on  the  fate  of  Richard  Ledyard. 

"  I  am  not  going  to  run  away,"  he  said,  obstinately, 
and  walked  on  with  an  evident  determination  to  hide 
what  he  was  enduring. 

After  a  hasty  consultation  it  had  been  decided  that 
Mr.  Ledyard  should  be  taken  to  Dr.  Danforth's  house, 
both  because  Danforth  insisted  upon  it  and  because  his 
own  house  was  the  only  one  in  the  village  to  which  the 
doctor's  going  out  or  in  caused  no  comment.  He  was 
convinced,  therefore,  that  it  was  the  only  place  of  shelter 
in  which  it  would  be  possible  to  conceal  the  nature  and 
cause  of  Ledyard's  misfortune, 
p  w  29 


338  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

They  all  agreed  that  to  do  this  was  only  second  in 
importance  to  saving  his  life,  both  for  the  sake  of  the 
young  clergyman  himself,  whose  whole  influence  might 
be  destroyed  if  the  facts  should  be  known  without  a 
proper  explanation,  and  for  that  of  Henderson,  whom 
Danforth  still  hoped  to  persuade  to  go  away  somewhere 
quietly  and  quickly  as  soon  as  he  had  done  what  might 
be  needful  for  him.  Fortunately,  the  lonely  spot  to 
which  the  two  men  had  inclined  their  steps  by  mutual 
consent,  in  order  to  prevent  what  they  each  wished  to 
say  to  the  other  from  being  overheard,  had  probably 
prevented  the  tell-tale  shots  fired  from  being  heard  either. 

The  lateness  of  the  hour  also  helped  them  by  wrap- 
ping half  Dundafif  in  peaceful  slumber,  and  Danforth 
comforted  himself  by  recalling  the  absence  of  the  sta- 
tion-master from  the  platform  at  the  moment  the  Balti- 
more train  arrived. 

He  had  reason  to  think  that  no  one  but  himself  and 
the  conductor  of  the  New  York  train  had  seen  Ledyard 
meet  Henderson,  and  noticed  that  they  walked  off  to- 
gether as  by  appointment. 

Still,  the  thoughts  of  all  the  little  group  were  gloomy 
enough  as  they  moved  noiselessly  along  by  the  dimin- 
ished light  of  the  now  sinking  moon,  and  next  to  Hen- 
derson's those  of  Nathalie  were  perhaps  the  least  envi- 
able. She  believed  herself  to  have  reached  the  most 
complete  realization  of  the  dread  foreboding  which  had 
haunted  her  towards  the  close  of  that  day.  Nor  was  it 
so  wonderful  as  it  was  womanly  and  unreasonable  that 
in  her  anguish  at  the  fear  of  losing  Ledyard  she  only 
thought  of  him  as  the  hero  that  she  had  made  him 
in  her  fancy,  with  the  halo  about  him  of  his  recently- 
discovered  love  for  her,  and  ceased  to  remember  the 
grave  doubts  of  his  previous  conduct,  which  had  been 
confirmed  so  strangely  that  very  evening.  This  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  he  had  fallen,  as  it  seemed,  for  the  sake 
of  the  very  woman  whom  she  believed  to  have  been  her 
rival  1 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  339 


CHAPTER    XLIV. 

THERE  was  still  a  lamp  burning  brightly  in  Dr.  Dan- 
forth's  consulting-room  between  two  and  three  o'clock 
the  following  morning,  but  the  heavy  outer  blinds  were 
closed  now  and  the  curtains  carefully  drawn  over  the 
windows,  so  that  but  the  faintest  intimation  escaped  into 
the  forsaken  village  street  of  the  light  within,  where  Mil- 
lard  Henderson  sat  quite  alone  reading  his  wife's  letter. 

His  arm  proved  to  be  not  so  badly  wounded,  but  hit 
nearly  in  the  same  place  that  Ledyard's  was,  it  having 
been  the  curious  fancy  of  the  angry  man  to  deal  forth 
what  he  had  intended  for  justice  by  taking  exactly  what 
he  gave  (although  not  consciously  meting  it  out  on  the 
model  of  the  Hebrew  law) ;  but,  like  many  attempts  at 
human  justice,  it  had  failed  of  its  object ;  the  failure  being 
partly  due  to  the  different  temperaments  and  constitutions 
of  the  two  recipients  and  partly  to  that  element  of  the 
incalculable  which  is  always  confounding  the  would-be 
arbiters  of  fate. 

Thus  the  second  shot,  although  as  truly  aimed,  could 
be  borne  without  a  sign  by  Millard  himself,  who,  when 
forced  to  have  the  wound  bound  up,  could  walk  with  it 
to  Dundaff,  where,  after  having  the  ball  properly  ex- 
tracted in  Danforth's  office,  he  could  still  endure  the 
smart  ensuing,  almost  unconscious  of  the  weakness  of 
body  which  it  caused,  owing  to  the  excess  of  mental 
excitement  under  which  he  was  laboring,  while  the  first 
did  infinitely  more  damage,  and  had  a  very  serious  effect 
upon  the  more  highly  nervous  organization  of  Richard 
Ledyard. 

Indeed,  the  ball  fired  at  Ledyard  had  torn  the  flesh 
and  shattered  the  bone  above  his  elbow  so  severely  that 
there  were  grave  doubts  as  to  whether  the  whole  arm 
might  not  have  to  be  sacrificed  to  save  the  life  of  the 
man.  He  had  also  had  a  fall ;  but  the  chief  enemy  which 


340  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

Dr.  Danforth  had  to  contend  with  in  his  case  was  a  de- 
pression of  the  whole  system  as  a  result  of  the  shock 
of  being  fired  upon,  the  indignation  he  had  felt  at  Hen- 
derson's accusations,  and  the  loss  of  blood,  which  he 
could  much  less  readily  afford  to  lose  than  his  more 
robust  antagonist.  Indeed,  Danforth  felt  so  anxious  that 
he  insisted  on  sitting  beside  this  patient  all  night  long, 
while  just  now,  that  Cynthia  and  Nathalie  were  being 
escorted  safely  home  by  Mr.  Granby  Neil,  Henderson 
was  left  to  his  own  reflections. 

After  all  the  torture  of  mind  he  had  been  through 
that  day,  he  was  thankful  for  a  few  moments  in  which 
to  readjust  his  disturbed  order  of  thought  to  the  seem- 
ingly impossible  disclosure  that  had  been  made  to  him 
this  night  before  he  broke  the  seal  of  the  fate-freighted 
letter. 

"  My  dear  Millard,"  Posey  began  with  great  simplicity, 
in  the  irregular,  somewhat  childish  handwriting  which 
had  always  been  hers,  "  I  must  speak  of  things  which 
happened  a  great  while  ago,  and  which  we  have  both 
tried  to  forget,  in  order  to  make  you  understand  all  that 
has  come  to  pass ;  but  before  I  say  anything  else  I  will 
say  this, — I  loved  you  always.  I  never  loved  any  one  but 
you.  I  say  it  in  the  beginning,  and  I  will  say  it  again 
at  the  end.  It  is  my  first  and  my  last  word.  I  suppose 
it  has  been  the  misfortune  of  my  life,  but  I  would  not 
have  it  otherwise.  I  would  rather  have  all  the  suffering 
and  keep  the  love. 

"  Do  you  remember  how  you  came  to  Dunstable,  when 
I  was  a  half-grown  girl,  with  your  friend  Mr.  Granby 
Neil  ?  That  was  when  I  loved  you  first.  You  were  a 
mere  boy,  and  were  just  having  what  you  would  have 
called  a  little  fun,  I  suppose,  with  a  country  girl  whom 
you  never  thought  to  see  again.  I  know  all  about  such 
things  now.  I  quite  understand  how  you  looked  at  it, 
but  I  did  not  then. 

"  To  me  you  were  a  hero.  I  cannot  tell  you  all  you 
seemed,  or  how  I  missed  you  when  you  went  away.  My 
home  had  been  dull  enough,  but  it  had  not  been  unbear- 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  341 

able,  before  you  came.  That  is  what  it  seemed  to  me, 
though,  after  you  were  gone. 

"  Then  Mrs.  Pelham  chanced  to  come.  Mr.  Neil  it 
was  who  told  her  of  the  place,  and  she  said  he  spoke 
of  me  to  her,  but  she  never  mentioned  your  name.'  Yet 
when  she  asked  me  to  go  home  with  her,  I  went,  in  the 
hope  that  we  might  meet,  for  were  you  not  her  relative  ? 
It  so  chanced  though,  as  you  may  recall,  that  you  were 
not  in  town  all  that  winter,  but  in  the  Naval  Academy, 
hard  at  work.  Mr.  Neil  was  there,  and  came  often  to 
see  me ;  but  I  never  cared  for  his  attentions,  for  I  barely 
liked  him.  Then  it  came  time  for  my  visit  to  end.  My 
father  was  very  angry  because  I  had  not  told  Mrs.  Pel- 
ham  of  my  promise  to  him,  and  had  let  her  take  me  to 
the  theatre.  He  said  that  I  must  come  home  at  once  and 
ask  his  pardon.  I  determined  not  to  do  so.  There  is  no 
use  dwelling  on  all  this.  You  know  that  I  did  not  go. 
I  went  on  the  stage  instead.  You  remember,  too,  our 
strange  meeting  in  San  Francisco,  your  lingering  after 
Mr.  Neil  had  gone,  and  the  rest. 

"  Now  I  come  to  the  most  painful  part  of  what  I  have 
to  write, — that  terrible  meeting,  after  our  long  parting,  in 
the  theatre  in  Baltimore,  when  you  told  me  that  all  was 
over  between  us  ;  that  I  must  not  think  of  you  any  more ; 
in  short,  that  you  were  about  to  marry  another  woman  ! 
Oh,  Millard,  if  you  had  ever  cared  for  me  as  I  had  cared 
for  you,  you  would  have  known  what  that  meant !  As 
it  was,  you  could  not,  I  think,  realize  your  cruelty.  I 
am  sure  you  did  not! 

"  I  cared  for  nothing  then.  I  was  in  despair,  and 
knew  that  I  was  on  the  verge  of  shame  and  disgrace. 
It  was  just  at  this  time  that  I  was  surprised  by  a  declara- 
tion from  Mr.  Granby  Neil.  He  told  me  that  he  thought 
you  cared  for  me  and  he  feared  I  loved  you,  and  so  he 
had  never  spoken  of  his  own  love  before ;  but  that  now, 
when  you  were  to  be  married  to  some  one  else,  he  felt 
that  he  might  speak,  and  he  came  to  ask  me  if  I  would 
not  marry  him.  At  the  same  time  he  told  me  that  he 
had  made  an  engagement,  which  he  could  not  break,  to 


342  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

go  with  a  party  of  artists  to  Montana,  in  order  to  supply 
scenery  to  a  wild  Western  drama  to  be  brought  out  the 
following  autumn,  and  go  he  m^st. 

"  He  wanted  me  to  consent  to  marry  him  at  once,  be- 
cause* he  said  that  as  a  married  woman  I  should  be  more 
protected  in  my  professional  life,  and  then  when  he  came 
back  to  claim  me  that  I  should  leave  the  stage.  His 
offer  opened  a  mode  of  escape  to  me  from  disgrace.  I 
thought  all  hope  was  over  of  my  ever  seeing  you  again. 
The  fact  that  Mr.  Neil  was  going  away  immediately  also 
tempted  me.  While  I  was  hesitating,  my  mother  came 
to  Baltimore  to  see  me.  She  begged  me  to  give  up  the 
stage  at  any  cost.  She  implored  me  to  come  home  with 
her,  promising  to  brave  my  father's  anger,  to  bear  all  his 
reproaches  for  me,  etc.  I  was  in  daily  terror  lest  she 
should  discover  my  secret,  and,  wishing  to  show  reason 
for  resisting  her  entreaties,  I  spoke  of  Mr.  Neil.  At  length 
I  told  her  that  I  had  promised  to  be  his  wife,  and  I  con- 
ceived the  plan  of  marrying  him  without  telling  him 
that  which  he  would  have  had  most  right  to  know. 

"  The  difficulty  was  to  get  the  thing  done  quickly  and 
quietly.  I  thought  of  my  half-brother,  Richard  Ledyard, 
who  was  a  divinity  student  at  a  seminary  in  New  York. 
He  was  my  mother's  son  by  her  first  husband  (the  former 
rector  at  Dunstable),  and  never  liked  her  marrying  my 
father,  who  had  been  his  father's  assistant :  so  Richard 
seldom  came  home.  He  lived  with  my  mother's  sister 
in  New  York.  I  had  not  seen  him  since  I  was  a  child, 
but  he  used  to  pet  me  and  play  with  me  then,  and  I  knew 
he  was  fond  of  me,  although  until  now  I  had  almost  for- 
gotten him. 

"  I  got  Richard's  address  from  my  mother,  and  wrote  to 
him,  begging  him  to  come  to  me  in  Baltimore,  which  he 
did,  with  evident  reluctance.  So  devoted  was  he  to  his 
unenviable  calling  that  he  had  obtained  permission  to  visit 
the  sick  and  needy  outside  the  school  while  pursuing  his 
theological  studies,  and  his  work  lay  amid  the  dirtiest 
and  most  hopeless  haunts  of  sin  and  misery  in  New 
York.  Ah,  well,  it  is  a  strange  world !  I  used  every 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  343 

argument  I  could  think  of  to  induce  him  to  marry  us  at 
once.  He  flatly  refused.  He  said  he  had  not  as  yet  been 
even  ordained  a  deacon,  and  was  not  empowered  to  per- 
form the  marriage  ceremony.  He  also  said  that  he  saw 
no  reason  for  such  haste,  and  was  opposed  to  it.  It  would 
be  better  to  wait  until  Mr.  Neil  came  back.  When  Mr. 
Neil  spoke  of  my  unprotected  life,  and  I  said  to  Dick  that 
he  used  to  be  fond  of  me  once,  he  urged  me  to  leave  the 
stage  and  let  him  take  care  of  me  until  Mr.  Neil's  return. 
My  mother  urged  it  too  ;  Richard  would  give  me  a  home 
if  I  still  feared  my  father's  wrath  ;  but  I  positively  declined 
this.  I  suddenly  remembered  my  aunt's  having  told  me 
how  Richard  had  married  two  persons  in  New  York, 
who  went  to  him  in  great  distress,  when  he  was  merely  a 
lay  reader,  before  he  became  a  student  of  divinity,  and 
I  asked  him  how  he  had  done  it.  He  said  he  had  used 
the  '  civil  form.'  Then  I  besought  him  to  use  it  for  us. 
Mr.  Neil,  who  had  to  start  that  evening,  joined  his  en- 
treaties to  mine.  Even  my  mother  came  over  to  our 
side;  and  so  Richard  took  Mr.  Neil  apart  and  talked  to 
him,  and  at  last  yielded,  although  he  would  not  use  the 
church  ritual,  as  he  said  there  was  a  canon  to  forbid  its 
use  without  authority. 

"  We  were  married  by  the  civil  form  in  a  room  in  my 
lodging  house,  with  only  my  mother  and  my  landlady 
looking  on,  and  it  was  not  until  after  Mr.  Neil  and  my 
brother  were  gone  that  my  mother  learned  the  real  facts. 
She  was  greatly  shocked,  but,  as  I  said  nothing,  she 
thought  Mr.  Neil  to  blame.  When  we  believed  him  to 
have  been  killed,  I  wrote  to  her  the  whole  truth.  This 
was  after  you  had  come  back,  and  I  wanted  her  to 
understand. 

"  How  strangely  it  happened  that  you  should  have 
been  the  person  to  tell  me  of  his  death  !  In  the  moment 
I  knew  that  I  was  a  widow  I  saw  the  sudden  hope  of 
being  reunited  to  my  only  love!  I  should  have  told 
you  all,  1  know ;  but  I  was  afraid.  What  if  you  should 
think  me  disloyal  to  you  or  heartless  to  your  friend  and 
refuse  to  marry  me  for  that  reason  ?  Especially  I  dreaded 


344  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

to  have  you  learn  the  deception  I  had  practised  on  Mr. 
Neil.  I  feared  if  you  should  meet  my  mother  she  would 
tell  you  this.  I  was  sure  if  you  met  my  brother  he 
would  tell  you  of  my  marriage  to  Mr.  Neil.  I  therefore 
pretended  that  the  letter  I  wrote  home  to  my  parents  to 
tell  them  of  my  marriage  to  you  had  been  returned  to 
me  unopened.  I  wrote  to  my  mother  secretly,  and  de- 
clared that  I  wished  to  break  off  all  intercourse  with  my 
family,  lest  they  should  tell  you  that  which  I  did  not 
wish  you  to  know ;  that  we  were  going  abroad,  and  I 
should  not  send  her  our  address.  I  begged  her,  if  she 
loved  me,  not  to  try  to  find  it  out  or  to  tell  Richard  the 
name  of  the  man  I  had  married.  With  regard  to  my 
father,  no  such  precautions  and  no  feigning  were  neces- 
sary. He  had  been  implacable  from  the  first,  and  my 
mother  could  only  see  or  write  to  me  unknown  to  him  ; 
but  when  Richard  learned  from  her  the  true  state  of  the 
case  he  was  very  indignant  with  me,  and  could  not  for- 
give himself,  being  such  a  good  young  man,  for  having 
unconsciously  helped  to  deceive  Mr.  Neil,  any  more  than 
he  could  forgive  me  for  deceiving  him  ! 

"  Little  did  I  dream  when  we  sailed  away  from  all  our 
cares,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  to  those  happy  foreign  lands, 
of  the  awful  retribution  which  was  corning  upon  me  in 
Mr.  Neil's  strange  resurrection. 

"  Here  I  am  married  to  two  men ;  one  whom  I  love, 
but  I  am  legally  the  wife  of  the  one  whom  I  loathe ! 
How  can  I  ever  look  in  your  face  again,  my  own  true 
husband,  when  you  know  these  things  ?  I  have  deter- 
mined that  I  will  not !  I  can  see  no  hope  anywhere ! 
On  every  side  of  me  is  misery  and  despair,  unless  Rich- 
ard can  devise  some  plan  to  save  me  from  destruction. 

"  I  have  promised  you  a  full  explanation,  and  so  I 
write  it.  It  is  indeed  the  story  of  my  life,  but  if  ever  it 
be  placed  in  your  hands,  Posey  will  be  no  more !" 

As  he  finished  reading  this  letter,  Millard  Henderson 
started  to  his  feet. 

"  Merciful  Heaven !  what  a  brute  I  have  been !"  he 
cried,  striking  his  forehead  with  his  clinched  hand. 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  345 

"  Why  did  I  refuse  to  read  her  letter  when  that  poor 
fellow  offered  it  to  me  ?  Why  did  I  suspect  him  of  such 
vileness  as  I  could  not  myself  have  stooped  to,  when  I 
was  in  reality  not  worthy  to  hold  a  candle  to  him  ?" 

Just  then  he  heard  the  sound  of  a  latch-key  in  the 
street  door.  It  was  Neil  returning,  as  he  guessed  at 
once,  and,  with  an  instinctive  shrinking  from  meeting  his 
old  friend,  who  now  held  so  strange  a  relation  towards 
him,  he  looked  to  be  sure  that  the  door  of  the  consulting- 
room  was  bolted  on  the  inside,  as  he  thought  he  remem- 
bered that  he  had  fastened  it  when  he  first  came  in. 
Yes,  it  was  quite  secure.  But  the  next  moment  there 
came  a  sharp  double  rap  on  the  other  side. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  he  asked,  sternly. 

"  A  telegram." 

The  door  was  opened  instantly,  and  Henderson  and 
Neil  stood  face  to  face.  Neil's  whole  expression  had 
changed.  He  looked  ten  years  older  than  the  day  before. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  spoken  as  I  did  to  you,  Millard," 
he  said,  hoarsely.  "  I  understand  now  that  we  were  both 
deluded." 

Millard  hardly  heard  what  he  said.  His  eyes  were 
riveted  on  the  yellow  envelope  which  Neil  held.  It 
was  addressed  to  "  Lieutenant  Henderson,"  and  not  yet 
opened. 

"  That  is  enough,  Neil.  No  one  has  been  so  unjust 
or  so  mistaken  as  I  have  been,"  he  said,  hastily.  "  Give 
me  the  message,  please."  He  took  the  telegram  as  he 
spoke,  tore  open  the  cover,  and  read  these  four  words : 

"  Posey  dying.     Come  immediately. 

(Signed)     "  MARY  PERIWINKLE." 

What  happened  after  this  he  never  could  distinctly 
remember.  Granby  Neil,  who  read  the  message  almost 
at  the  same  moment,  seemed  also  greatly  shocked. 
There  was  a  buzz  of  voices.  Danforth  had  come  down, 
and  was  giving  some  directions  to  them  both.  Then  he 
was  walking  through  the  village  street  again.  It  was 


346  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

still  dark,  and  had  begun  to  rain.  Neil  was  with  him, 
and  was  carrying  a  bag.  When  they  got  to  the  railway- 
station  it  was  ten  minutes  of  four,  and  he  realized  that 
he  was  about  to  take  precisely  the  same  train  by  which 
he  had  left  the  same  station  on  the  morning  of  the  pre- 
vious day. 

Neil  was  buying  his  ticket.  Then  the  train  had  come, 
and  Neil  was  speaking  to  the  conductor  about  him.  He 
heard  him  say  "  Dunstable,"  and  then  he  was  handed 
the  bag.  Neil  had  said  "  Good-by"  to  him  in  a  strained 
tone,  and  was  gone, — or,  rather,  the  train  had  started  with 
Millard  in  it  and  Neil  was  left  behind.  The  conductor 
was  especially  attentive,  took  him  into  a  compartment, 
and  told  him  to  lie  down. 

Henderson  looked  more  closely  at  the  bag  which  was 
left  in  his  hand,  and  recognized  it  as  his  own, — the  same, 
in  fact,  with  which  he  had  left  DundafT  the  morning 
before.  What  had  happened  since  then?  He  vainly 
tried  to  recall  things  in  any  kind  of  order;  in  fact,  worn 
out  as  he  was  in  body  and  mind  by  all  he  had  gone 
through,  and  weakened  by  loss  of  blood,  he  was  merci- 
fully falling  asleep,  lulled  to  oblivion  by  the  monotonous 
motion  of  the  swiftly-advancing  train. 

He  could  always  remember  the  chilled  misery  of  his 
arrival  at  Dunstable,  between  eight  and  nine  o'clock  on 
the  Monday  morning,  in  the  midst  of  a  pelting  rain,  and 
that  when  leaping  from  the  train  he  knocked  the  elbow 
of  his  left  arm  against  the  hand-rail,  thereby  causing 
himself  a  twinge  of  intense  pain,  but  nothing  else  made 
any  impression  until  he  was  standing  in  a  square,  low- 
ceil  inged  room  of  the  old  parsonage  before  a  bed  on 
which  a  figure  could  plainly  be  distinguished  beneath  a 
white  sheet. 

"  It  is  all  over,"  some  one  was  saying.  "  The  end  was 
very  peaceful.  We  hoped  she  might  return  to  con- 
sciousness, but  she  did  not.  She  only  lived  a  few  hours 
after  we  found  her,  and  did  not  seem  to  have  suffered 
beyond  the  first  half-hour, — so  thought  the  doctor." 

"  Found  her !      Where  f"  he  asked,  with  horror. 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  347 

"  Why,  in  the  grove  behind  the  house." 

"  How  long  had  she  been  there  ?" 

"  We  do  not  know.  She  was  seen  to  arrive  at  Dun- 
stable  by  the  three-o'clock  train,  but  we  never  dreamed 
she  was  here.  We  should  not  have  thought  of  looking 
for  her  when  we  did,  if  your  telegram  of  Saturday  night, 
asking  if  Posey  were  at  Dunstable,  had  not  come  last 
evening,  after  lying  all  Sunday  at  the  closed  office.  It 
is  all  too  terrible!  Do  you  know  why  she  did  it,  Mr. 
Henderson  ?" 

The  speaker  was  Posey's  poor  mother.  Millard  looked 
at  her  for  a  moment  in  wide-eyed  misery. 

"  Did  what?"  he  asked. 

"  Took  her  own  life,"  replied  the  woman,  bravely. 
"  She  had  swallowed  poison,  and  was  too  far  gone,  the 
doctor  told  us,  for  there  to  be  any  hope  of  his  recovering 
her,  although  he  tried  every  means  we  could  devise.  I 
hoped,  I  fancied,  that  if  you  had  come — but  of  course  it 
was  impossible !" 

Millard  gave  a  sort  of  gasp  and  gulped  down  a  sob. 
Then  he  drew  reverently  near  and  raised  the  sheet  which 
hid  the  face.  There  she  lay,  with  her  delicately-perfect 
profile,  like  a  waxen  image  of  the  pretty  Posey  of  his 
youth,  for  the  hand  of  death  had  smoothed  out  all  the 
lines  of  care,  and  the  sweet,  child-like  smile  that  had 
first  attracted  him  was  on  the  still,  white  lips. 

It  is  not  for  us  to  intrude  on  this,  the  hour  of  Millard 
Henderson's  desolation.  Enough  to  say  that,  could  the 
poor  little  woman  who  had  loved  him  so  unhappily  have 
seen  his  pitying  face  and  felt  his  unaccusing  sorrow,  the 
most  eager  longing  of  her  self-absorbed  nature  would, 
for  the  time,  have  been  at  rest. 


348  BROKEN  CHORDS. 


CHAPTER   XLV. 

ALTHOUGH  the  Monday  morning  was  bleak  and  dreary 
at  DundafT  as  it  was  at  Dunstable,  Cynthia  Arkwright, 
who  had,  like  her  sister,  passed  another  disturbed  night, 
rose  early  and  went  with  Nathalie  to  Dr.  Danforth's  to 
ask  after  Mr.  Ledyard.  The  doctor  came  down  worn 
and  haggard  after  his  long  night's  watch,  looking  very 
grave  over  his  patient.  "  He  is  sleeping  now,"  he  said, 
"but  a  troubled  sleep,  and  his  temperature  has  been 
very  high  all  night.  The  arm  looks  badly,  too.  What 
I  fear  most  is  mortification ;  but  I  would  not  have  him 
know  this  for  the  world." 

"  Would — would  it  kill  him  ?"  asked  Nathalie,  with 
trembling  lips. 

"  Not  necessarily ;  but  I  should  have  to  amputate  his 
arm,  of  course,"  replied  Danforth,  sadly,  "and  in  his 
condition  that  would  be  a  serious  matter." 

"  You  look  so  completely  tired  out,  Dr.  Danforth — 
cannot  Nathalie  and  I  take  charge  of  poor  Mr.  Ledyard 
for  a  few  hours  and  let  you  get  some  rest?" 

"  I  am  rather  fagged,"  returned  Danforth,  "  for  I 
expected  to  have  Neil  to  call  on,  but  he  was  so 
knocked  down  by  that  telegram  that  came  last  night 
that  after  he  had  seen  Henderson  off  I  had  to  send  him 
to  bed." 

"  What  was  the  telegram  ?"  asked  Cynthia  and  Natha- 
lie together,  and  were  then  told  of  the  fatal  four  words 
which  had  summoned  Millard  Henderson  to  Dunstable. 

"  Cynthia,"  whispered  Nathalie,  laying  her  hand  on 
her  sister's  arm,  "  ought  you  not  to  go  to  Mrs.  Pelham  ? 
Just  think  how  anxious  she  must  be!" 

"  Yes,  Nathalie,  I  think  I  ought.  Cannot  my  sister 
at  least  sit  by  Mr.  Ledyard  while  he  sleeps,  doctor?" 
she  continued,  while  Danforth,  looking  doubtfully  at 
Nathalie,  met  her  entreating  eyes,  recalling  the  look  of 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  349 

agonized  supplication  with  which  they  had  been  raised 
to  his  the  night  before. 

"  Will  you  be  very  careful  to  do  exactly  what  I  tell 
you,  Miss  Nathalie,  and  promise  if  .Mr.  Ledyard  should 
awake  not  to  let  him  talk  ?" 

"  I  will,"  she  answered,  somewhat  as  she  might  have 
given  the  same  response  in  a  certain  momentous  cere- 
mony, but  quite  unconscious  that  there  was  anything 
unusual  in  her  tone. 

Accordingly,  Dr.  Danforth  went  up-stairs  with  this 
earnest  young  person,  and,  having  given  her  careful 
directions,  left  her  in  charge  of  his  patient,  who  was  still 
sleeping.  He  then  came  down  again  to  Cynthia.  She 
had  asked  to  be  allowed  to  wait,  and  he  found  her  pacing 
anxiously  to  and  fro  in  his  consulting-room.  Indeed, 
sorry  as  she  was  for  Ledyard's  suffering,  she  was  most 
troubled  over  the  painful  nature  of  facts  connecting  so 
much  discredit  with  the  past  histoiy  of  Mrs.  Henderson 
and  the  terrible  position  in  which  Henderson  himself 
would  be  placed  if  Ledyard  should  not  survive  the  injury 
that  had  been  inflicted  with  such  rash  injustice.  Feeling 
that  it  was  most  important  to  clear  away  every  shade 
of  misunderstanding  between  Henderson  and  Neil,  and 
strengthened  by  all  that  she  had  heard  in  the  belief  that 
the  truth  would  serve  Mr.  Ledyard  best,  she  had  taken  oc- 
casion to  narrate  to  Mr.  Neil,  when  he  was  accompanying 
Nathalie  and  herself  home  the  night  before,  that  circum- 
stance of  the  note  to  Mr.  Ledyard  which  had  seemed  so 
inexplicable  to  Millard  Henderson,  asking  whether  he 
could  form  any  conjecture  as  to  the  reason  that  poor 
Posey  had  addressed  Mr.  Ledyard  as  "  Dear  Dick"  and 
been  so  anxious  to  conceal  her  acquaintance  with  him, 
whatever  it  might  be,  from  her  husband  ?  It  was,  then,  to 
her  utter  astonishment  and  to  the  infinite  relief  and  satis- 
faction of  Nathalie  they  had  both  been  told  of  the  relation- 
ship between  Richard  Ledyard  and  Posey  Periwinkle, 
who  was  his  half-sister;  while  Neil,  on  his  side,  was 
surprised  beyond  measure  to  learn  that  Posey  had  not 
only  concealed  her  former  marriage  from  Millard,  but 

30 


350  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

had  kept  him  ignorant  of  the  very  existence  of  this 
brother! 

When  they  reached  the  safe  harbor  of  the  little  cottage 
and  had  said  good-night  to  Mr.  Neil,  Nathalie's  full  heart 
overflowed,  and  she  told  her  sister,  with  many  blushes, 
of  all  that  had  passed  between  herself  and  Richard  that 
evening,  and  also  of  the  letter  she  had  found  which 
seemed  so  compromising,  and  yet  could  so  easily  be  un- 
derstood in  the  light  of  what  they  had  just  heard. 

Cynthia  was  now  anxious  to  consult  with  Danforth  as 
to  the  best  means  of  avoiding  the  annoyance  to  all  con- 
cerned, and  possible  danger  and  disgrace  to  Henderson, 
of  having  the  matter  made  public. 

"  Do  you  think  the  thing  can  be  kept  quiet,  doctor  ?" 
she  asked,  as  soon  as  he  returned. 

"  I  think  it  must"  replied  Danforth  ;  "  and  to  that  end 
I  was  going  to  suggest  to  you  to  ask  Mrs.  Pelham  to  say 
nothing  to  any  one  of  the  events  of  last  evening,  as  every 
person  who  is  told  of  a  thing  of  this  kind  increases  the 
chances  of  its  being  found  out.  Indeed,  I  would  tell 
Mrs.  Pelham  herself  only  what  is  needful  at  first.  To 
hear  it  gradually  will  break  the  shock  of  such  a  dis- 
closure. As  long  as  Mr.  Ledyard  is  shut  up  in  my  spare 
bedroom  I  can  insure  the  acceptance  of  the  story  that  I 
shall  tell  of  his  having  met  with  an  accident.  I  shall 
say  that  he  fell  and  that  his  arm  was  broken,  which  is 
circumstantially  true,  the  only  falsity  being  in  the  order 
of  the  facts,  as  that  the  arm  was  broken  and  then  he  fell 
would  be  truer ;  but  once  Henderson  returns,  and  is  seen 
walking  about  also  with  his  arm  in  splints,  and  I  may 
say  what  I  like !  no  one  will  be  fool  enough  to  refer  twc 
such  accidents  on  the  same  evening  to  natural  causes  ; 
while  if  Ledyard  should  not  recover,  Millard  actually 
runs  the  risk  of  being  prosecuted  for  murder  in  the  first 
degree !  I  never  heard  of  such  mad  conduct  as  his  in 
sending  that  threatening  message,  and  then  following  it 
up  as  he  did !  He  must  be  kept  from  coming  back  at 
all  hazards !" 

Dr.  Danforth  only  put  into  words  the  fear  that  had 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  351 

been  haunting  Cynthia  all  night,  but  she  answered,  with 
a  composure  which  cost  her  some  effort, — 

"  There  was  certainly  no  intention  on  Lieutenant  Hen- 
derson's part  of  killing  Mr.  Ledyard  ;  I  think  that  would 
be  considered,  and  could  be  proved ;  but  you  are  quite 
right  in  thinking  that  he  should  not  return,  and  if  his 
poor  wife  is  dying  he  is  not  likely  to  wish  to  come  back 
for  the  present." 

"  That  is  true.  Poor  Mrs.  Henderson  !  It  might  be 
the  best  way  out  of  the  dreadfully-complicated  state  of 
affairs  for  her!  I  think  in  that  case  the  whole  thing 
could  be  suppressed.  There  is  certainly  good  reason, 
for  my  old  friend  Neil's  sake,  if  for  that  of  no  one  else, 
why  nothing  should  be  known  of  the  sad  story  of  his 
duped  affection  and  betrayed  confidence,  which  he  told 
me  last  night  If  the  woman  who  played  such  havoc 
with  the  lives  of  two  men  should  have  gone  to  her  last 
account,  there  will  be  every  facility  for  letting  the  matter 
rest,  and  every  motive  for  doing  so." 

"  There  will  indeed,  for  we  none  of  us  know  what  her 
temptations  may  have  been,  or  what  she  may  have  suffered 
in  expiation  of  her  faults,"  replied  Cynthia,  solemnly. 

On  further  consideration  it  was  decided  that  Mrs. 
Pelham  must  be  told  at  once  of  Posey's  danger,  in  case 
she  might  not  already  have  been  informed  of  it,  and  also 
be  urged  to  use  all  her  influence  to  prevent  Henderson 
from  returning  to  Dundaff  for  the  present.  Cynthia  was 
of  opinion  that  it  would  therefore  be  necessary  to  break 
to  her  the  true  nature  of  Ledyard's  injury,  and  explain 
to  her  the  misunderstanding  which  led  to  it.  She  said, 
however,  that  she  would  leave  Henderson  to  tell  her  as 
much  or  as  little  of  the  circumstances  which  induced  his 
wife  to  conceal  her  relationship  to  Ledyard  as  he  de- 
sired. She  fully  agreed  with  Danforth  that,  for  Mr.  Neil's 
sake  as  well  as  for  Posey's,  they  should  not  be  made 
known  to  any  one.  "  Indeed,"  she  continued,  "  I  have 
always  believed  that  the  right  of  each  human  being  to 
privacy  in  his  own  personal  experience  of  joy  or  sorrow 
was  inviolable." 


352  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

Right  glad  was  the  good  doctor,  when  after  Cynthia 
went  away  he  looked  in  again  at  Ledyard,  to  find  him 
yet  sleeping  and  Nathalie  sitting  beside  him  as  still  and 
as  watchful  as  he  could  desire.  He  bade  her  be  sure 
to  call  him  in  case  certain  symptoms,  which  he  very 
carefully  described,  should  appear,  and  stole  softly  away 
to  the  little  study  which  he  had  fitted  up  for  reading  and 
smoking  next  the  sick-room  on  one  side,  while  on  the 
other  opened  his  own  bedchamber,  temporarily  surren- 
dered to  the  use  of  Granby  Neil.  Danforth  was  in  the 
habit  of  declaring  himself  to  be  a  confirmed  old  bach- 
elor, but  the  eyes  of  a  certain  young  lady  which  looked 
out  of  a  small,  carved  wooden  frame  over  the  mantel- 
shelf somehow  mocked  the  assertion,  as  did  Danforth's 
own  expression  as  he  gazed  at  the  portrait  for  a  mo- 
ment, in  spite  of  his  extreme  fatigue,  before  he  wrapped 
himself  in  a  travelling-rug  belonging  to  Neil,  and,  fling- 
ing himself  down  on  a  hard,  leather-covered  couch,  sank 
into  the  most  profound  sleep. 

The  house  was  very  quiet  after  this.  There  was  no 
sound  in  the  sick-room  but  the  troubled  breathing  of 
the  wounded  man,  whose  slumber  was  by  no  means  so 
peaceful  as  that  of  his  physician.  He  was  lying  with 
his  head  pillowed  on  the  well  arm  (fortunately,  the  right 
one)  and  his  face  turned  towards  the  wall,  from  time  to 
time  making  a  low,  moaning  sound.  Nathalie  watched 
him  with  sad  eyes,  and  yet  she  was  infinitely  grateful  to 
Cynthia  and  to  fate  for  the  possibility  of  thus  ministering 
to  the  man  she  loved.  By  and  by  he  moved  uneasily 
and  began  muttering  something  which  was  only  half 
articulate.  Nathalie  caught  the  name  of  "  Posey"  sev- 
eral times,  uttered  in  a  tone  of  remonstrance,  but  she 
understood  the  reason  for  his  speaking  to  Posey  thus 
anxiously  now,  and  began  to  realize  all  it  must  have  cost 
him  to  lay  aside  his  own  interests  completely  for  the 
last  two  weeks  in  order  to  devote  himself  to  hers.  She 
longed  for  an  opportunity  of  asking  forgiveness  for  ever 
having  permitted  a  doubt  of  his  truth  and  integrity  to 
enter  her  mind,  but  it  would  not  come,  she  knew,  for 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  353 

even  should  Richard  awake  she  was  not  to  let  him 
talk. 

Dr.  Danforth  had  laid  no  injunction,  however,  against 
her  allowing  Mr.  Ledyard  to  talk  in  his  sleep,  which  was 
fortunate  for  his  anxious  and  conscientious  nurse,  as 
presently  he  turned  half  towards  her,  and  asked,  ex- 
citedly,— 

"  Do  you  suppose  your  first  marriage  was  legal  ?  It 
would  have  been  in  New  York,  I  am  sure  ;  but  how  about 
Maryland  ?  It  was  by  the  civil  form,  you  know,  and  the 
laws  of  States  differ.  What  do  you  think  ?"  he  asked, 
eagerly,  and  then  added,  with  a  change  of  tone,  "  but  of 
course  you  do  not  know ;  poor  child,  how  should  you  ?" 

Nathalie,  whose  nerves  had  been  a  good  deal  wrought 
upon,  not  unnaturally,  by  all  she  had  felt  and  suffered  in 
the  last  two  days,  was  further  startled  at  this  moment 
by  seeing  the  door  that  led  into  Dr.  Danforth's  bedroom 
open  and  a  figure  appear  upon  the  threshold  which  she 
recognized  as  that  of  the  artist,  just  as  Ledyard  exclaimed 
in  his  delirium,  "  Granby  Neil  could  find  out !  Where 
is  Mr.  Granby  Neil  ?  I  must  speak  to  him.  There  is 
not  a  moment  to  spare !  If  you  delay,  Posey,  we  shall 
miss  the  train  !  Quick,  quick  !" 

Nathalie  put  her  finger  on  her  lips  to  indicate  to  the 
real  Mr.  Neil,  who  evidently  caught  his  name  and  was 
about  to  speak,  that  Mr.  Ledyard  was  unconscious,  but 
as  she  did  so  Richard  cried  out  again,  almost  joyfully, 
still  addressing  the  imaginary  Posey,  "  There  would  be 
a  way  out  of  your  difficulty.  If  your  marriage  to  Mr. 
Neil  should  not  have  been  legal,  then  that  to  Henderson 
is  valid." 

Mr.  Neil,  who  looked  badly  enough  when  he  first 
appeared,  became  absolutely  ghastly  at  these  words. 
He  strode  a  step  or  two  into  the  room,  and  then  paused 
irresolute.  "  What  makes  you  think  my  marriage  was 
not  legal  ?"  he  called  out  hoarsely,  in  a  much  louder  tone 
than  he  realized. 

The  question  was  quite  unheeded  by  the  sick  man, 
who  fell  to  frowning  and  muttering  something  unintel- 


354  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

ligible,  but  it  roused  Dr.  Danforth,  for  in  spite  of  his 
exhaustion  he  was  too  anxious  not  to  wake  easily,  and 
he  was  in  the  room  before  Ledyard  spoke  again,  this 
time  with  a  faint  smile,  as  though  in  answer  to  something 
said  by  Posey : 

"  Why  did  I  not  think  of  it  before  ?  Yes,  I  was  think- 
ing about  the  service  in  the  woods,  you  mean  ?  I  knew 
you  would  say  that !  I  never  married  any  one  else  in 
Baltimore.  I  told  you  I  ought  not  to  marry — factory 

people — the  church  ritual "  His  voice  died  away  in 

a  faint  murmur,  very  aggravating  to  Mr.  Neil,  who,  de- 
spite Nathalie's  signs,  had  been  approaching  gradually 
nearer,  trying  to  catch  Ledyard's  disjointed  words. 

"  Factory  people !"  he  now  exclaimed,  and  was  about 
to  say  more,  when  Dr.  Danforth  laid  a  detaining  hand 
upon  his  arm,  and,  drawing  him  to  a  little  distance,  said, 
in  a  low,  severe  voice  close  to  his  ear, — 

"  Are  you  determined  to  take  away  the  small  chance 
for  his  life  that  poor  Ledyard  has,  by  talking  to  him  in 
that  loud  tone  ?" 

Granby  Neil  colored  hotly  and  .looked  thoroughly 
ashamed  of  himself,  as  Nathalie  thought  he  should  be. 
She  was  not  in  a  charitable  mood  enough  to  consider 
all  he  had  suffered,  perhaps,  but  she  thought  a  good 
deal  of  what  Ledyard  had  had  to  bear,  as  well  as  of  what 
he  had  said  in  his  fever,  after  she  reluctantly  surrendered 
her  post  beside  him  and  was  wending  her  way  back  to 
the  cottage. 

Mr.  Neil,  too,  thought  of  it,  and  when  he  found  a  later 
opportunity  to  weigh  the  doubt  which  had  seemed  so 
harrowing  on  its  first  suggestion,  he  felt  it  of  importance. 

When  Cynthia  reached  Fernwood,  meanwhile,  she 
found  all  in  confusion.  Mrs.  Pelham  was  not  only  in 
possession  of  the  sad  piece  of  intelligence  which  she 
intended  to  break  to  her,  but  had  received  a  second  tele- 
gram from  Henderson  within  the  last  half-hour,  telling 
of  his  wife's  death. 

"  I  must  go  to  Millard,  of  course,"  she  said  at  once  to 
Cynthia,  who  found  her  in  her  own  bedchamber  greatly 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  355 

agitated,  while  the  weeping  Teresa  was  packing  her  trunk, 
and  Wilfred  was  asking  questions  which  no  one  as  yet 
had  courage  to  answer. 

Cynthia  it  was  who  drew  him  softly  away  to  his 
father's  study  later  and  tried  to  make  him  understand. 
But  before  this  she  found  an  opportunity  of  explaining 
to  Mrs.  Pel  ham  her  anxiety  in  case  Henderson  should 
return  to  Dundaff,  as  well  as  of  expressing  her  sympathy 
with  regard  to  the  death  of  poor  Posey,  to  whom,  in 
spite  of  her  many  faults,  Mrs.  Pelham  had  always  been 
attached,  and  for  whom  Cynthia  herself  had  acquired 
a  feeling  of  affection  mingled  with  compassion.  They 
neither  of  them  knew  as  yet  of  the  manner  of  her  death, 
but  both  were  greatly  shocked  at  the  suddenness  of  it. 
Mrs.  Pelham's  plan  was  to  go  with  Wilfred  to  the  inn 
at  Dunstable,  where  she  had  once  stayed  so  many 
years  before.  She  would  be  there  until  after  Posey's 
funeral,  and  then  see  if  she  could  not  persuade  Millard 
to  go  elsewhere  with  her  and  the  child  and  stay  quietly 
until  his  wound  were  healed.  She  would  write  to  Cyn- 
thia, of  course,  and  keep  her  informed  of  their  where- 
abouts, and  would  be  very  anxious  for  news  of  poor  Mr. 
Ledyard. 

So  it  was  settled,  and  when  her  hasty  preparations 
were  made  and  the  carriage  came  to  the  door,  Cynthia 
helped  in  Mrs.  Pelham  and  poor  little  Wilfred,  who  now 
looked  supernaturally  grave,  and  last  of  all  Teresa,  and 
drove  with  them  all  to  the  station,  where,  to  their  very 
great  surprise,  the  first  person  they  saw  was  Mr.  Granby 
Neil,  very  pale  and  worn-looking.  He  too  had  received 
a  telegram,  it  seemed,  and  was  bound  for  Dunstable. 


356  BROKEN  CHORDS. 


CHAPTER   XLVI. 

THE  village  gossips  were  not  regaled  with  the  story 
of  the  one-sided  duel  between  Lieutenant  Henderson 
and  Mr.  Ledyard.  The  fact  that  Mr.  Ledyard  had  met 
with  a  serious  accident  and  was  lying  at  the  house  of 
Dr.  Danforth  in  a  very  critical  condition  did  come  to 
light,  but  not  at  first ;  and  when  it  was  known,  there  was 
every  story  but  the  true  one  circulated  with  it.  Some 
people  said  that  he  had  slipped  and  fallen  from  the 
Tarpeian  Rock  after  the  service  in  the  woods.  Others 
declared  that  he  had  caught  his  foot  in  one  of  the  wooden 
supports  of  the  track  in  crossing  the  railway,  and,  while 
trying  to  extricate  it,  had  fallen,  twisting  his  arm  under 
him  so  that  it  was  broken. 

All  accounts  declared  that  something  was  the  matter 
with  his  arm,  and  when  the  most  famous  surgeon  in 
Baltimore  was  known  to  have  been  summoned  in  con- 
sultation by  Dr.  Danforth,  it  was  also  declared  that 
things  looked  very,  very  grave.  Unfortunately,  the 
great  consultant  and  the  villagers  agreed  about  this,  for 
he  admitted  to  Danforth  that  the  only  hope  for  Mr.  Led- 
yard's  life,  in  his  opinion,  lay  in  instant  amputation. 

As  Dr.  Danforth  had  fully  made  up  his  own  mind  to 
this  effect,  the  operation  was  performed  without  further 
delay,  and  the  famous  surgeon,  having  seen  the  patient's 
pulse  react  in  a  satisfactory  manner,  left  him  to  come  out 
of  the  influence  of  the  anaesthetic,  while  he  caught  the 
next  train  to  the  city,  but  not  without  giving  a  promise, 
which  he  took  the  very  best  means  of  keeping,  that  he 
would  say  nothing  to  any  one  as  to  the  nature  of  the 
injury,  for  good  and  sufficient  reasons,  which  were  care- 
fully explained,  and  which  he  promptly  forgot,  together 
with  the  whole  matter,  having  many  other  things  to 
think  of  that  were  of  greater  importance  to  him  than 
Mr.  Ledyard. 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  357 

Neither  did  Richard  Ledyard  die  of  the  effect  of  the 
operation.  On  the  contrary,  he  began  to  do  better  the 
moment  the  poor  mangled  arm  was  taken  off,  and  showed 
what  seemed  to  Danforth  a  marvellous  amount  of  cour- 
age and  cheerfulness  in  facing  the  prospect  of  a  maimed 
existence. 

Dr.  Danforth,  however,  had  reason  to  suspect  a  secret 
source  of  strength  and  comfort  which  Richard  Ledyard 
was  encouraged  to  draw  on  freely  at  this  time,  for  Cyn- 
thia and  Nathalie  continued  to  share  with  him  the  task 
of  caring  for  Mr.  Ledyard.  They  almost  always  came 
and  went  together,  but  on  returning  one  day  with  a  tell- 
tale countenance  from  a  visit  to  Camelot,  where  an  inter- 
view with  Miss  Florence  Betterton  had  ended  in  a  most 
unexpectedly  satisfactory  manner  to  both  of  them,  he 
overheard  the  following  remarks  from  the  sick-room 
while  washing  his  hands  in  the  adjoining  chamber: 

"  Yes,  Cynthia  says  that  I  have  no  right  to  promise 
without  mamma's  consent,"  spoke  a  certain  soft  soprano. 

"  Then  remember  that  you  are  not  pledged  to  me," 
said  Ledyard,  quickly. 

"  I  will  never  marry  any  one  else,  and  so  I  have  written 
mamma." 

"  Dear  Nathalie !  I  am  afraid  I  shall  make  but  a  poor 
substitute  for  a  husband.  It  is  not  quite  fair,  is  it,  sweet- 
heart, to  be  tied  to  a  cripple  ?" 

Whereupon  followed  an  interval  so  suspicious  that 
Dr.  Danforth  thought  it  necessary  to  cough  twice  before 
pushing  open  the  partly-closed  door  between  the  two 
rooms  preparatory  to  his  noonday  visit  to  his  patient. 
The  younger  Miss  Arkwright  while  awaiting  the  return 
of  her  sister,  who  had  gone  to  attend  to  some  household 
matter  in  the  village,  was  then  discovered  seated  very 
demurely  with  her  hands  folded  on  her  lap,  her  eyes 
cast  down,  and  rather  a  brilliant  color.  When  Danforth 
took  occasion  later  to  express  to  Cynthia  the  pleasure 
he  felt  at  the  idea  of  the  engagement,  she  begged  him 
to  say  nothing  about  it  until  Mrs.  Arkwright  should  be 
heard  from,  but  frankly  admitted  that  nothing  would 


358  BROKEN  CHORD  S. 

make  her  happier  than  to  feel  that  her  sister's  future  life 
was  to  be  joined  with  that  of  a  man  whom  she  admired 
and  trusted  as  she  did  Mr.  Ledyard. 

Nor  was  it  with  Cynthia  alone  that  a  change  had  oc- 
curred in  the  degree  of  estimation  in  which  Mr.  Ledyard 
was  held.  Not  but  that  he  had  been  personally  liked 
and  admired  before,  but  now  he  was  strongly  believed 
in,  the  change  which  had  taken  place  comprising  all  that 
lies  between  doubt  and  certainty. 

Perhaps  no  moral  suasion  could  have  had  so  whole- 
some an  effect  upon  those  of  his  congregation  who  had 
been  inclined  to  lend  a  willing  ear  to  Mrs.  Betterton,  or 
been  more  damaging  to  the  authority  of  that  lady's 
dictum,  than  the  strange  disclosure  that  Mr.  Ledyard 
had  been  the  brother  of  poor  Mrs.  Henderson,  the  tragic 
manner  of  whose  death  could  not  be  kept  a  secret, 
having  formed  the  subject  of  a  leading  article  in  the 
Dunstable  News,  and  was  now  set  down,  together  with 
the  rest  of  her  erratic  and  ill-regulated  conduct,  to  dis- 
turbance of  mind  resultant  upon  the  shock  of  her  acci- 
dent. Then  the  illness  of  the  young  rector,  when  it 
became  known  that  his  life  was  in  danger,  appealed  to 
the  hearts  of  the  villagers  just  after  his  eloquence  had 
excited  their  admiration,  and  last,  but  not  least,  they 
were  taught  to  appreciate  him  most  highly  by  the  long, 
wandering,  mildly  theological  and  generally  illogical  ser- 
mons which  his  worthy  substitute,  Mr.  Cushman,  now 
delivered  to  them  regularly  every  Sunday  at  St.  Andrew's. 

Millard  Henderson  did  not  return  to  Dundaff  until 
his  wound  was  healed.  Mrs.  Pelham  with  great  diffi- 
culty brought  him  to  consent  to  go  elsewhere  for  a  while 
with  little  Wilfred,  while  she  herself  came  back  to  the 
house  at  Fernwood  to  make  such  arrangements  as  were 
needful.  It  is  perhaps  doubtful  whether  she  might  have 
succeeded  in  prevailing  upon  him  to  yield  to  her  in  this 
but  for  the  added  persuasions  of  Mr.  Granby  Neil,  who 
behaved  with  great  dignity  and  self-control  at  Dunstable, 
and  after  the  funeral  of  the  unfortunate  Posey  attached 
himself  to  Millard  with  almost  his  old  affection. 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  359 

He  even  tried  to  induce  Henderson  to  go  abroad  with 
him  for  the  winter,  but  this  he  stoutly  refused  to  do, 
declaring  that  it  was  utterly  impossible  for  him  to  leave 
his  affairs  at  Dundaflf, — his  work  at  the  mills  only  just 
begun,  and  his  new  system  not  fully  established. 

When  Mrs.  Pelham  came  back  to  Fernwood  she  sent 
for  Cynthia,  whom  she  greeted  with  even  more  than  her 
usual  affection,  urging  her  to  stay  with  her,  which  Cyn- 
thia gladly  consented  to  do  while  she  was  alone,  as 
Nathalie  had  been  called  peremptorily  to  Baltimore  and 
she  too  was  alone,  while  Mrs.  Pelham  evidently  clung' 
to  and  looked  up  to  her  with  increased  dependence. 

"  Perhaps  I  had  better  confess  to  you  at  once,  my 
dear  Cynthia,"  that  lady  said,  with  feeling,  as  they  sat 
together  before  the  fire,  "  that  I  now  know  everything 
I  have  been  told  enough  by  Millard  to  easily  guess  the 
rest,  and  since  I  understand  at  last  the  noble  motive 
which  led  to  your  abandoning  all  that  was  dear  to  you 
long  years  ago,  you  are  doubly  precious  to  me.  I  long 
for  your  companionship  now  that  no  dread  mystery  any 
longer  stands  between  us,  and  am  resolved  never  again 
to  part  with  you  if  I  can  possibly  influence  you  to  be 
with  or  near  me." 

But  although  Cynthia  responded  warmly,  she  was  not 
destined  to  satisfy  her  friend's  desire  for  her  society  for 
some  time  to  come.  The  truth  was  that  each  had  now 
new  ties,  or,  rather,  the  old  ones  had  become  so  tightly 
knotted  round  them  as  to  interfere  with  independent 
action.  Mrs.  Arkwright,  whose  health  had  been  failing 
much  more  rapidly  than  her  daughters  realized,  grew 
suddenly  more  ill.  She  never  read  the  letter  in  which 
Nathalie  attempted  to  explain  to  her  all  that  she  felt  on 
the  subject  which  was  nearest  to  her  heart,  but,  going  to 
the  post-office  between  hope  and  fear  of  the  answer  she 
might  find  there  from  her  mother,  Nathalie  was  greeted 
by  a  hasty  note  from  one  of  her  half-sisters,  summoning 
her  to  meet  them  in  Baltimore,  whither  Mrs.  Arkwright 
was  being  taken  by  slow  stages,  having  left  Berkeley 
Springs  before  Nathalie's  letter  got  there  because  of  her 


360  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

increased  weakness  and  what  the  doctors  considered  a 
very  alarming  change  for  the  worse  in  her  condition. 
Indeed,  she  only  lived  a  few  weeks  after  she  reached 
home. 

As  soon  as  she  heard  of  the  death  of  her  step-mother, 
Cynthia  felt  that  her  place  was  beside  Nathalie,  who  wrote 
urging  her  to  go  to  her  in  Baltimore,  and  whom  she  hoped 
to  be  able  to  bring  back  to  the  little  brown  cottage  and 
devote  herself  to  cheering  and  comforting  in  this  her 
first  great  sorrow ;  but  Nathalie  had  taken  a  very  severe 
cold  during  her  mother's  illness,  which  developed  into 
pneumonia.  She  was  critically  ill  for  a  week  or  more, 
and  was  left  with  a  cough  and  other  symptoms  which  led 
the  city  doctors  to  declare  that  she  required  a  complete 
change  to  some  soft,  warm  climate,  where  she  could  spend 
much  time  in  the  open  air,  while  even  Dr.  Danforth, 
whom  Cynthia  insisted  on  summoning  in  consultation, 
was  obliged  to  decide  that  a  winter  in  Dundaff  would  be 
too  severe  a  test  of  her  sister's  returning  strength.  It 
was  accordingly  arranged  that  Cynthia  and  Nathalie 
should  go  abroad  for  a  year,  which  they  did  with  great 
regret,  for,  happy  as  they  were  together,  the  thoughts  of 
each  turned  anxiously  back  to  those  they  left  behind.  A 
winter  passed  in  the  south  of  France  and  a  summer  in 
travelling  through  Germany  and  Switzerland,  however, 
completely  restored  Nathalie  to  health. 

Meanwhile,  Millard  Henderson  plodded  on  at  his  work. 
It  had  been  a  severe  trial  to  return  to  Dundaff,  carrying 
with  him,  as  he  did,  a  sense  of  shame  and  self- disgust 
sharpened  to  intensity  by  his  clear  recognition  of  the 
irreparability  of  the  wrong  he  had  inflicted.  If  the  pen- 
alty had  only  been  visited  upon  himself,  he  could  have 
faced  it  proudly,  or  so  he  thought ;  but  when  he  knew 
that  he  had  done  a  life-long  injury  to  Richard  Ledyard 
in  one  moment  of  rash  passion  ;  when  he  awoke  to  realize 
that,  after  all  the  years  in  which  he  had  striven  to  repair 
the  fault  committed  in  his  youth,  the  bitterest  fruit  that 
fault  could  yield  was  yet  to  be  harvested, — that  its  worst 
consequences  were  to  fall  on  the  innocent  and  uncon- 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  361 

scions  head  of  his  dearly-loved  boy, — such  thoughts 
were  almost  unendurable.  Would  it  be  possible  to  guard 
Wilfred  from  ever  knowing  of  the  stain  upon  his  birth  ? 
he  asked  himself;  or  might  the  careful  concealment  of 
it  on  his  part  lead,  as  the  boy  grew  older,  to  its  chance 
disclosure, — to  a  sudden  and  violent  enlightenment  which 
might  not  only  embitter  his  existence,  but  poison  his 
mind  and  harden  his  heart  against  those  whom  he  had 
loved  and  reverenced  ? 

Mi  Hard  would  spend  hours  in  his  library,  moody, 
silent,  plunged  in  gloomy  memories  or  in  darker  fore- 
bodings. His  only  comfort  was  in  the  regular  round  of 
his  prosaic  duties,  which  he  performed  with  a  sort  of 
fierce  promptitude  and  regularity.  He  had  written  to 
Ledyard  to  ask  his  forgiveness  while  yet  the  man  was  too 
ill  to  be  allowed  to  read  his  letter,  but  Richard  was  the 
first  person  whom  he  sought  on  reaching  Dundaff.  The 
young  rector  had  returned  to  his  own  house,  and  was  in 
his  study  one  evening,  when  the  door  opened  to  admit 
the  sad,  grave  face,  the  wistful  eyes  and  massive  form  of 
Millard  Henderson.  He  was  prepared  for  a  very  cold 
reception,  and  was  all  the  more  touched  and  surprised  by 
his  first  greeting  from  Ledyard,  who  held  out  his  single 
but  still  strong  right  hand  with  as  much  warmth  and  cord- 
iality as  if  there  had  been  no  midnight  meeting  between 
them  and  he  were  not  a  cripple  for  life  in  consequence 
of  their  misunderstanding.  There  was  nothing  which 
Millard  would  not  have  done  for  him  after  this,  and  by 
degrees  they  fell  back  into  their  old  relations,  the  natural 
charm  of  manner  which  drew  the  younger  man  towards 
the  older  one  when  they  were  first  thrown  together  being 
enhanced  by  a  congeniality  of  taste  and  of  temperament 
which  also  rendered  Richard's  society  and  companion- 
ship especially  agreeable  to  Henderson. 

Then,  too,  they  had  a  strong  interest  in  common  from 
their  mutual  hopes  and  plans  for  the  good  of  the  peo- 
ple, which  received  unprecedented  encouragement  from 
a  most  unexpected  circumstance.  This  was  the  fact  that 
old  Mr.  Betterton,  whose  failing  health  unfitted  him  for 
Q  3» 


362  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

the  active  supervision  of  his  affairs,  was  placing  his  busi- 
ness at  the  cotton-mills  more  and  more  in  the  hands  of 
Dr.  Danforth,  whose  engagement  to  Florence  Betterton 
was  now  openly  acknowledged,  and  who  possessed  a 
rare  quality  for  a  professional  man, — a  clear  head  for 
finance.^  But,  although  he  delighted  old  Mr.  Betterton  by 
the  skill  and  ability  he  showed  in  this  respect,  he  did  not 
share  his  intended  father-in-law's  dislike  of  everything 
new,  and  was  more  than  tolerant  of  Henderson's  schemes. 
Millard  felt  a  shade  less  miserable  as  time  went  on,  and 
began  to  make  an  effort  to  respond  to  Mrs.  Pelham's 
gentle  attempts  to  cheer  and  brighten  the  dreary  house, 
so  filled  with  haunting  associations.  Then  came  Granby 
Neil,  who,  it  seemed,  had  taken  Cynthia's  cottage  for  the 
winter,  with  all  its  furniture  and  belongings,  not  excluding 
old  Marjory.  There  was  an  air  of  mystery  about  Neil 
which  Millard  did  not  understand,  until  one  day  his  friend 
appeared  with  a  huge  white  envelope  directed  with  great 
care  to 

Granby  Neil,  Esq., 

Dundaff,  Howard  County, 

Maryland. 

"  Read  that !"  shouted  Neil,  quite  unconscious  of  the 
loud  tone  he  used  in  his  excitement.  "  That  has  just 
come.  It  is  from  Blank,"  naming  a  famous  Baltimore 
lawyer.  "  He  says  that  my  marriage  was  no  marriage 
at  all !  I  am  free  to  marry  again, — again,  if  you  please! 
Thank  God,  he  cannot  bring  me  to  that !" 

Mrs.  Pelham,  who  was  busy  with  her  crochet-work 
beside  the  fire,  a  low  lamp,  which  had  just  been  lighted, 
at  her  elbow,  looked  up  at  Mr.  Neil  with  amazement, 
and  then  from  him  to  Henderson  with  ill-concealed  anx- 
iety. For  a  moment  Millard  almost  shared  her  impres- 
sion that  Neil  had  gone  out  of  his  senses ;  then  he  took 
the  paper,  as  requested,  and  rapidly  ran  over  its  contents. 

It  was  an  opinion  from  the  great  authority  whom  Mr. 
Neil  had  mentioned,  that,  owing  to  the  peculiar  exaction 
of  the  law  of  Maiyland,  which  required  that  a  religious 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  363 

ceremony  should  be  "  superadded  to  the  civil  contract," 
— a  requisition  of  which  both  Neil  and  Ledyard  had 
been  ignorant,  the  law  of  Maryland  differing  in  this 
respect  from  that  of  New  York  and  many  of  the  other 
States, — the  civil  ceremony  conducted  by  Richard  Led- 
yard in  Baltimore,  intended  to  unite  Granby  Neil  to 
Posey  Periwinkle,  at  a  given  date,  did  not  constitute  a 
marriage. 

Neil  had  apparently  given  the  barest  possible  outline 
of  facts,  mentioning  his  long  absence  and  supposed  death, 
and  that  his  wife,  thinking  him  no  more,  had  married 
again.  As  he  had  not  mentioned  her  death,  and  said 
nothing  of  any  other  reason  for  wishing  to  look  into  the 
validity  of  the  marriage,  the  lawyer  whom  he  consulted, 
not  unnaturally,  supposed  that  he  wished  himself  to 
marry  again. 

Just  as  Millard  looked  up  from  this  singular  document 
his  gaze  lighted  on  little  Wilfred,  who  had  pushed  aside 
the  curtain  at  the  door  of  the  drawing-room  and  was 
peering  in  to  see  who  was  there,  preparatory  to  kissing 
them  all  good-night.  With  a  wild  flash  of  hope  that 
seemed  to  glare  like  lightning  across  the  sombre 
thoughts  which  had  been  induced  by  what  he  read, 
Henderson  suddenly  realized  what  the  establishment  of 
the  nullity  of  this  marriage  would  mean  for  his  child. 
He  glanced  from  the  boy  to  Neil,  perceiving  that  he 
had  followed  the  direction  of  his  eyes  and  now  read  his 
thoughts. 

"  Why,  of  course,"  said  Granby,  nodding :  "  that  is  the 
whole  point  of  my  having  taken  all  this  trouble."  Hen- 
derson flung  his  arms  about  Granby  Neil's  neck.  He  was 
beside  himself  with  joy.  "  Stop  a  bit !  stop  a  bit,  Millard !" 
said  the  artist,  shaking  himself  free,  not  ungently,  of  his 
friend's  embrace.  "  There  must  be  no  misunderstand- 
ing about  this,"  he  continued,  loudly,  and  then  suddenly 
his  voice  failed  him  and  sank  almost  to  a  whisper  as  a 
great  wave  of  feeling  swept  over  his  face.  "  I  want  you  to 
know,"  he  murmured,  "  that  this  was  not  all  done  for  you. 
If  Posey  had  but  lived  I  would  have  done  it  for  her  sake, 


364  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

gladly ;  and  I  thought,  when  she  was  gone,  that  the  only 
amends  that  I  could  make  for  having  driven  her,  albeit 
ignorantly,  to  a  desperate  end  would  be  this :  if  it  were 
possible,  to  do  it  for  her  boy." 

Henderson  could  not  answer.  The  two  men  clasped 
hands  silently,  and  then  little  Wilfred  came  and  put  up 
his  innocent,  wondering  face  to  each  in  turn,  and  last  to 
"  dear  Aunt  Pelham,"  for  the  good-night  kiss. 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  365 


CHAPTER    XLVII. 

EIGHTEEN  months  had  come  and  gone  since  the  events 
mentioned  in  the  last  chapter.  They  had  brought  great 
changes  to  Dundaff,  and  yet  had  left  many  things  un- 
changed, as  is  the  capricious  prerogative  of  Time. 

Six  months  after  his  arm  was  healed,  when  Richard 
Ledyard  began  to  show  signs  that  his  hard  winter's  work 
among  the  factory  people  was  telling  on  his  general 
health,  Dr.  Danforth  packed  him  off  without  a  moment's 
hesitation  to  join  his  lady-love  at  Nice,  with  orders  to 
travel  with  her  through  Switzerland.  There  was  a  good 
deal  of  fun  among  the  more  light-minded  of  his  con- 
gregation over  the  young  clergyman's  indisposition  and 
what  they  wittily  dubbed  his  "  sympathetic  cough,"  but 
Richard  cared  little  for  their  raillery,  or  was  only  amused 
by  it.  He  had  a  natural  leaning  towards  the  black  sheep 
of  his  flock,  whom  he  rather  preferred  to  their  spotless 
brothers. 

Before  he  left  Dundaff  for  his  holiday,  however,  he 
was  called  upon  to  perform  a  certain  auspicious  cere- 
mony for  his  kind  friend  and  care-taker,  Dr.  Danforth, 
whom  he  joined  in  wedlock  to  Miss  Florence  Betterton, 
and  the  reader  may  be  very  sure  that  he  allowed  no 
needful  formality  to  be  omitted  on  this  occasion. 

When  he  was  actually  ready  to  set  forth,  what  was  his 
surprise  to  learn  that  he  was  to  have  three  companions 
on  his  voyage  across  the  ocean !  These  were  no  less 
important  persons  than  Mrs.  Pelham,  Millard  Hender- 
son, whom  his  aunt  had  persuaded  to  go  abroad  with 
her  for  the  summer,  and  little  Wilfred. 

They  intended  to  take  one  of  the  French  vessels, 
which  Ledyard  very  gladly  agreed  to  do  also,  with  a 
view  of  landing  at  Havre  and  proceeding  at  once  to 
Geneva,  where  Mrs.  Pelham  would  rest  and  await  with 
Wilfred  and  his  father  the  arrival  of  the  others,  while 

31* 


366  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

Ledyard  would  push  on  to  Nice,  returning  with  Cynthia 
and  Nathalie  to  join  their  friends. 

It  was  a  plan  so  delightful,  Richard  thought,  that  he 
could  hardly  believe  in  its  real  accomplishment,  while 
he  was  by  no  means  the  only  person  to  whom  the  re- 
union it  promised  seemed  too  great  a  happiness  to  be 
seriously  hoped  for.  Yet  it  was  carried  out  in  every 
particular. 

Ledyard  found  Nathalie  looking  taller,  thinner,  paler, 
in  her  black  dress,  but  with  a  light  in  her  eyes  which 
made  his  heart  leap  up  with  gladness.  And  that  dear 
Cynthia  was  so  beamingly  considerate.  She  was  so  ab- 
solutely absorbed  in  her  packing  that  she  could  not  give 
them  any  time  at  all  that  evening,  and  Nathalie  was  so 
much  in  her  way  that  she  was  really  grateful  to  Mr. 
Ledyard  for  kindly  occupying  her  with  low-toned  con- 
versation on  the  moonlit  balcony  of  the  hotel  while  she, 
Cynthia,  made  her  final  important  preparations  for  their 
departure  on  the  morrow. 

Then  came  the  meeting  at  Geneva,  never  to  be  for- 
gotten by  two  at  least  of  the  friends  who  had  been 
parted  for  so  long.  It  was  as  they  were  all  walking 
home  from  the  view  of  the  sunset  on  the  lake,  at  the  close 
of  the  day  of  their  arrival,  when  Millard  and  Cynthia 
had  fallen  a  little  behind  the  others,  that  Henderson  tried 
to  say  to  her  something  of  the  deep  gratitude  which  he 
had  borne  in  his  heart  for  her  championship  of  his  for- 
lorn cause  "  on  that  night  when,  but  for  the  mercy  of 
God,  I  might  have  been  a  murderer !"  It  was  only  a 
word  or  two  that  he  could  manage  to  get  out,  so  dark 
and  terrible  to  him  still  were  the  associations  thus  called 
up,  but  a  word  or  two  were  quite  enough  to  convey  his 
meaning. 

The  six  weeks  which  followed  were  the  happiest  that 
Cynthia  had  ever  known.  It  was  in  itself  delightful  to 
her  to  be  once  more  with  Mrs.  Pelham,  even  if  the  pleas- 
ure had  not  been  enhanced  by  the  companionship  of 
Millard  Henderson,  by  the  stimulant  of  the  merry  banter 
between  him  and  Ledyard,  or  by  sympathy  for  the  joy  of 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  367 

Nathalie  and  Richard.  To  see  the  color  come  back  to 
Nathalie's  cheek,  indeed,  to  note  the  returning  elasticity 
of  step,  the  rounding  away  of  angles  left  by  her  long 
illness,  and  watch  Ledyard's  devoted  care  for  her  every 
wish,  his  thoughtful  consideration  of  her  weakness,  filled 
Cynthia  with  glad  hope  for  her  sister's  future. 

It  is  not  often  that  a  party  of  travellers  are  so  perfectly 
in  accord.  Even  the  child's  bright  face  and  eager  delight 
in  what  he  saw  were  a  source  of  enjoyment  to  them  all, 
while  nothing  could  exceed  the  tenderness  and  affection 
shown  Wilfred  by  Mrs.  Pelham  and  his  father;  but 
underlying  it  all  for  Cynthia  was  a  gladness  which 
would  not  be  denied,  in  the  unspoken  bond  between 
Milbrd  and  herself,  that  seemed  ever  drawing  closer. 
They  had  never  been  thrown  so  much  together,  never 
really  known  one  another  so  well,  and  the  more  they 
saw  each  of  the  other,  the  more  they  felt  the  broadening 
and  deepening  effect  that  life  had  had  upon  the  characters 
of  both. 

It  was  wonderfully  sweet  and  beautiful  to  her  to  ob- 
serve Millard  with  his  child  when  he  least  knew  she 
noted  him  ;  and  while  he  was  now  capable  of  appreciating 
the  thoughts  she  uttered  as  they  stood  together  before 
some  masterpiece  of  art  or  nature,  more  truly  than  he 
would  have  been  in  the  old  days,  he  felt  instinctively 
that  her  religious  mind  no  longer  shrank  with  distrust 
or  apprehension  from  his  love  for  exact  scientific  modes 
of  reasoning.  Thus  they  grew  daily  into  deeper  sym- 
pathy with  that  half-conscious  progress  which  makes 
life's  dearest  blessing. 

When  the  autumn  came  round,  Ledyard  and  Hender- 
son both  felt  that  they  should  go  back  to  work,  and  they 
all  turned  their  faces  homeward. 

The  event  of  that  autumn  in  Dundaff  was  the  mar- 
riage of  Richard  Ledyard  with  Nathalie  Arkwright. 
The  ceremony  was  performed  by  the  amiable  Mr.  Cush- 
man,  in  the  village  church,  of  course,  and  the  factory 
children  were  in  the  gallery,  and  there  was  much  re- 
joicing, and  many  flowers  were  flung  before  the  blushing 


368  BROKEN  CHOJWS. 

bride,  both  for  her  own  sake  and  that  of  her  bridegroom, 
while  after  all  this  was  over  they  went  for  a  short  visit 
to  Dunstable,  where  Richard's  mother  still  lived,  and 
then  came  back  very  quietly  to  the  little  rectory  at  Dun- 
daff.  As  it  drew  towards  spring  and  they  had  been 
married  nearly  six  months,  Nathalie's  twenty- first  birth- 
day, with  the  right  to  her  inheritance,  also  approached, 
and  she  confided  to  her  husband  a  design  which  she  had 
formed  "  long  ago,"  to  have  a  "  paper"  drawn — a  deed 
of  gift,  Ledyard  told  her  it  would  be — by  which  half  her 
fortune  should  be  handed  over  to  Cynthia. 

"  Do  you  not  think  it  should  be  hers,  Richard  ?"  she 
asked,  thoughtfully,  as  they  sat  together  over  the  fire 
one  bleak  night  in  February,  when  Jack  Frost  was  adorn- 
ing the  rectory  windows,  which  rattled  as  the  wind  went 
howling  by. 

"  I  not  only  think  so,  dear,  but  it  seems  to  me  very 
unjust  that  she  should  not  have  had  it  all  these  years," 
he  answered,  heartily.  "  There  is  no  one  who  could 
have  done  more  good  with  it.  But  what  is  that?" 

It  was  a  rap  at  the  outer  door,  which  Ledyard  opened 
to  admit  Cynthia  herself.  She  was  bright  and  glowing 
with  health  in  spite  of  the  cold  wind,  and  carried  beneath 
her  cloak  a  huge  bunch  of  hot-house  roses  which  Mrs. 
Pelham  had  sent  from  Fernwood  that  afternoon. 

"  I  thought  they  were  a  great  deal  too  sweet  for  me, 
and  I  would  just  bring  them  to  you,"  she  said  to  Nathalie. 

Nathalie  kissed  her  sister,  and  Ledyard  thanked  her 
warmly. 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  was  thinking  of  when  you 
came  in  just  now?"  he  asked.  "  It  was  of  the  first  time 
you  ever  spoke  to  me,  when  you  appeared  to  Danforth 
and  myself  in  this  very  room  and  bade  us  follow  you,  as 
we  were  both  so  glad  to  do." 

Cynthia  only  answered  with  her  rare,  sweet  smile. 
She  never  talked  of  her  good  deeds,  and  seldom  of  her- 
self if  the  subject  could  be  avoided. 

Meanwhile,  the  spring  wore  on  slowly.  Ledyard  had 
been  gaining  the  hearts  of  the  factory  people,  to  whom 


BROKEN  CHORDS,  369 

he  preached  on  Sunday  afternoons  in  one  of  the  large 
mill  buildings,  while  many  of  them  now  came  regularly 
to  the  morning  service  at  St.  Andrew's.  They  all  loved 
Mrs.  Ledyard,  for  she  no  sooner  became  the  wife  of  the 
rector  than  she  threw  herself  heart  and  soul  into  the 
work  which  had  so  long  been  her  sister's, — helping  her 
to  get  her  classes  together  again  and  to  minister  to  the 
poor  and  suffering  as  Cynthia  had  ministered  for  so  many 
patient  years.  Richard,  who  worshipped  the  ground  she 
walked  on,  was  only  anxious  lest  Nathalie  should  overdo, 
for  there  was  nothing  going  on  in  all  the  country  round 
but  Nathalie  had  a  share  in  it.  She  loved  humanity,  was 
at  home  with  all  classes  of  people,  and  always  in  demand. 

Perhaps  the  most  popular  person  in  the  higher  circles 
of  the  country  society  in  these  days,  however,  was  Mr. 
Granby  Neil.  The  wonderful  stories  he  could  tell  of  life 
in  the  far  West  for  older  listeners,  the  Indian  war-dances 
which  he  could  imitate  for  the  benefit  of  the  boys,  the 
charming  portraits  he  could  p;iint  of  the  pretty  girls  in 
the  neighborhood,  all  conduced  to  this  end,  and  he  was 
a  welcome  guest  in  every  household,  although  especially 
the  property — as  they  considered — of  Danforth  and  his 
wife,  who  now  lived  in  a  fine  new  house  on  the  hill  be- 
yond Cynthia's  cottage,  next  to  which  Mr.  Neil  had  built 
himself  a  pretty  studio,  always  to  be  found  in  the  state  of 
picturesque  disorder  which  was  as  the  very  breath  of 
life  to  the  artist. 

He  had  painted  a  very  spirited  picture  of  Wilfred 
Henderson  on  his  pony,  the  sittings  for  which  took  place 
in  Cynthia's  garden,  and  were  no  less  eagerly  looked  for- 
ward to  by  the  painter  and  the  boy  than  by  Henderson, 
as  they  formed  an  excuse,  while  they  lasted,  for  the  most 
delightfully  informal  daily  meetings  between  himself  and 
Cynthia.  They  were,  indeed,  constantly  in  one  another's 
society  in  these  days,  alone  or  in  the  company  of  others, 
and  were  at  little  pains  to  conceal  the  enjoyment  each 
derived  from  the  association,  but  avoided  by  tacit  con- 
sent any  expression  of  personal  sentiment.  It  not  only 
Beemed  to  Cynthia  as  if  no  such  expression  were  needed, 


370  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

but  she  had  her  own  reasons  for  wishing  most  earnestly 
for  the  undisturbed  continuation  of  their  present  relations 
of  frankly  affectionate  friendship.  To  Mi  Hard,  on  the 
other  hand,  this  feeling  of  hers  was  so  transparent  that 
he  struggled  bravely  with  the  hunger  of  his  heart,  which 
would  not  be  satisfied  without  the  assurance  that  seemed 
at  times  so  plain  and  yet  eluded  definition.  It  was  but 
a  question  of  time,  perhaps,  for  at  last  it  gained  the 
mastery. 

One  lovely  day  towards  the  end  of  June  Cynthia  had 
just  returned  from  the  rectory,  where  a  very  important 
event  had  taken  place  during  the  last  two  weeks,  in  the 
birth  of  a  little  Miss  Ledyard,  whose  mother  and  father 
both  insisted  that  her  name  was  to  be  Cynthia,  while 
"  Aunt  Cynthia"  objected  strongly,  on  the  ground  that 
Nathalie  was  a  much  prettier  name.  She  found  Rich- 
ard and  Nathalie  very  obstinate,  however,  not  only  on 
this  point,  but  as  to  that  other  important  subject  of  the 
"  deed  of  gift."  Not  even  when  she  appealed  to  them 
on  the  plea  that  they  were  depriving  this  innocent  child 
of  its  rights  was  she  able  to  move  them  to  reconsider 
their  action  in  the  matter ;  and  so  she  said,  at  last,  that 
she  would  hold  the  property  in  trust  for  her  namesake 
and  give  the  income  to  people  who  knew  "  how  to  use  it." 

On  this  especial  June  morning,  when  once  more  in  her 
pretty  cottage,  where  the  flowers  were  all  in  bloom,  she 
was  looking  from  her  window  as  on  a  day  gone  by. 
Her  eyes  were  slightly  dreamy,  but  there  was  a  half- 
smile  on  her  lips  even  before  she  saw  Millard  Hender- 
son riding  up  the  road  with  his  face  turned  towards  her. 
He  sprang  from  his  horse  the  instant  that  his  look  met 
hers,  and,  throwing  the  reins  to  the  groom,  who  led  the 
horse  away  towards  Fernwood,  came  quickly  up  the 
garden  walk.  The  next  moment  he  was  in  the  cottage. 

"  Cynthia,"  he  said,  "  I  have  come  for  you.  I  cannot 
»vait  any  longer.  My  love,  do  you  love  me?" 

"  Yes,  Millard." 

"  Then  you  belong  to  me." 

"  No,  Millard.     I  never  can  belong  to  you." 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  371 

'  Never  ?" 

"  Never  in  this  world." 

"  But  why,  if  you  can  love  me  in  spite  of  the  past  ? 
What  is  there  now  to  hold  us  from  one  another  ?  Do 
you  not  know  how  I  love  you,  all  you  are  to  me  ? — 
that  my  every  thought  is  how  to  please  you,  my  great- 
est dread  to  give  you  pain  ?  Why  may  we  not  marry 
at  last?  Cynthia,  dear  Cynthia,  look  at  me.  Surely, 
surely  you  will  be  mine !" 

But  she  had  turned  away.  She  could  not  answer  for 
a  while,  though  it  was  infinitely  sweet  to  her  to  hear  him 
call  her  by  her  name.  She  loved  his  voice.  Its  every 
tone  found  answer  in  her  heart.  She  longed,  yet  feared, 
to  meet  his  eyes. 

"What  have  I  done  now,  Cynthia? — something  for 
which  I  may  not  be  forgiven  ?"  he  asked,  in  a  changed 
tone. 

"  No,  dear  love,  you  did  not  do  it,  and  it  is  no  sin ;  but 
ibis  done.  Do  you  not  know, — do  you  not  remember?" 
she  asked,  turning  towards  him  at  last  and  raising  her 
eyes  to  his  with  a  pure,  bright  smile.  "  Do  you  forget 
that  when  I  went  into  the  convent  I  took  a  solemn  vow  ? 
Please  understand  me.  I  would  undo  it  if  I  could,  for 
your  sake ;  nay,  I  will  be  honest,  I  would  undo  it  for 
my  own ;  but  I  am  pledged." 

He  made  a  motion  towards  her,  which  she  checked 
with  a  glance. 

"  I  may  not  marry,"  she  said,  sadly. 

"  Not  when  you  have  left  the  convent,  when  you  are 
living  in  the  world  ?"  cried  Henderson.  "  What  differ- 
ence can  it  make  to  break  that  vow,  when  you  have 
broken  others?" 

"  The  others  were  not  broken  willingly.  I  have  told 
you  how  they  sent  me  from  the  convent.  The  breaking 
of  them  in  form  was  forced  upon  me.  I  have  tried  to 
keep  them  in  the  spirit.  I  do  not  believe  that  we  are 
held  responsible  for  that  which  we  cannot  control,  but 
this  was  a  promise  which  I  can  help  breaking.  It  is 
quite  within  the  power  of  my  will  to  be  true  to  this 


372  BROKEN  CHORDS. 

solemn  pledge,  and  I  believe  that  when  I  die  I  must 
answer  for  it  to  my  Maker." 

"  Then  are  you  still  a  Romanist  ?  I  thought  you  told 
me  that  you  had  changed  your  faith." 

"  I  have  changed  my  faith.  There  was  a  time  when 
I  was  so  sore  pressed  that  I  had  almost  lost  it.  I  can 
no  longer  claim  to  be  of  the  Church  of  Rome,  but  I 
never  for  one  moment  thought  myself  free." 

"  And  I  never  dreamed  of  your  thinking  of  yourself 
in  the  light  of  a  nun.  You  surely  do  not  call  yourself 
the  bride  of  Christ,  and  all  that  ?" 

"  I  call  myself  nothing  but  a  foolish  woman  who  has 
made  a  vow  that  she  will  not  marry,  and  made  it  of  her 
own  free  will." 

"  But  before  that,  Cynthia,  you  had  given  me  your 
faith.  Ah,  I  know  what  your  silence  means,"  he  con- 
tinued, bitterly,  after  a  pause  in  which  she  had  not  an- 
swered. "  You  mean  that  I  betrayed  it ;  and  it  is  true  ; 
but  that  betrayal  was  before  I  had  ever  seen  you,  and 
from  the  time  I  did  see  I  loved  you.  I  think  you  never 
doubted  it,  although  you  could  not  know  how  much. 
In  truth,  I  would  gladly  have  died  for  you,  and  before 
you  took  this  vow  you  were  mine'' 

"  Yes,  I  once  belonged  to  you,"  she  said,  with  trem- 
bling voice.  "  We  need  not  speak  of  that  which  parted 
us.  It  is  all  past.  I  know  you  loved  me  as  you  say, 
and  you  know  I  loved  you ;  but,  Millard;  let  us  both  be 
brave  and  face  the  truth.  It  was  chiefly  because  I  loved 
you  and  my  heart  was  broken  that  J  made  this  vow,  but 
I  never  meant  it  to  be  a  mere  form  to  shut  me  from  the 
world.  I  meant  it  to  be  the  beginning  of  a  new  life, — 
one  devoted  to  God  through  his  creatures.  I  could  not, 
if  I  married,  carry  out  the  pledge  even  in  spirit.  I  must 
live  partly  for  myself  in  living  for  you ;  and  what  in- 
terests, what  temptations  might  not  come  to  turn  us  both 
from  the  direct  path  of  duty !  It  is  not  as  though  we 
had  ourselves  alone  to  think  of.  You  have  your  Wil- 
fred, who  needs  all  your  love  and  care,  and  I  the  poor 
and  suffering,  to  whom  I  have  promised  my  life  in  God's 


BROKEN  CHORDS.  373 

name.  Should  I  not  feel  bound  in  honor  to  be  true  to 
a  promise  to  any  human  creature  ?  then  how  much  more 
by  this  to  the  God  who  has  shown  me  infinite  mercy  and 
forbearance  ?" 

Millard  Henderson  gazed  at  Cynthia,  as  she  spoke, 
much  as  he  would  have  looked  on  a  ship  which  was 
sailing  out  to  sea  with  all  he  loved,  yet  leaving  him  be- 
hind. Then  there  came  a  change  over  his  face.  There 
was  no  convincing  power  for  him  in  what  she  said,  but 
he  suddenly  saw  that  it  was  absolutely  true  for  her,  and 
that  his  cause  was  the  more  hopeless  for  the  love  she 
would  not  deny.  The  look  of  anguish  died,  and  one  of 
patient  strength  came  in  its  place.  He  would  not  urge 
his  own  claim  now  as  in  his  passionate  youth.  Only 
once  for  all  the  years  of  deprivation  he  took  her  in  his 
arms  and  pressed  his  lips  to  hers. 

Only  once,  and  then  they  parted.  Yet  not,  as  before, 
in  an  agony  of  regret  followed  by  months  of  hopeless 
longing.  They  parted  as  lovers,  each  knowing  that  the 
other  would  love  on  to  the  end,  but  to  meet  again  as 
friends  that  prized  their  friendship  as  the  dearest  thing 
in  life,  both  determined  to  make  existence  so  much  less 
difficult  as  might  be  possible  for  either. 

Indeed,  as  time  went  by  and  little  Wilfred  grew  to 
manhood,  and  Nathalie's  children  came  about  the  cot- 
tage, and  Cynthia's  hair  was  touched  with  silver,  they 
were  no  less  true  nor  tender  friends.  Seldom  did  the 
day  pass,  winter  or  summer,  but  Millard  came  to  sit 
awhile  beside  the  cottage  fire  or  paused  to  talk  with  her 
on  the  flower-framed  veranda,  and  he  had  no  care  and 
she  no  sorrow  which  they  did  not  share  with  one  another 

32 


FINIS. 


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